Soul Searching
by Schlub-NoogieRat
Summary: She desperately wanted to succeed at actually summoning something—anything—to prove that she was worthy of the nobility she had been born into, especially provided her illustrious lineage. He was a talentless kid with a huge liability of a partner. It all goes downhill from there. (Alt!Saito summon)
1. Chapter 1: Unsmiling Sun

This is posted as a mirror for this fic's story thread in Creative Writing forum of the SpaceBattles boards. It's technically a crossover, but I didn't put it up as one because I couldn't get Saito's name in the second character space if I did.

I decided to go with the "Saito is from another setting" plot device, and I hope I'll succeed in preventing him from becoming the dreaded SINO (Saito In Name Only). I'm going with the light novel continuity for _Zero no Tsukaima_, but I will integrate some stuff from the anime that I feel like working with (like the hair colors, for one). I was originally gonna do the same with _Soul Eater_—predominantly manga continuity with some anime stuff thrown in—but I decided to integrate whatever I like from either adaptation since the SE setting isn't the primary setting here anyway.

Chapter 1: Unsmiling Sun

It was a bright morning over the Tristain Academy of Magic, with the sun making its way slowly across the mostly cloudless sky, indifferent to the mages and commoners bustling about below. Likewise, those in the academy were too engrossed with their business to care about something as mundane as a clear sunny day, save maybe for some words of discomfort from those who were susceptible to the heat or were a little conscious of their skin complexion. Among the former was a group of second year students gathered in one of the courtyards, for they felt nothing but excitement for participating in the cherished and sacred Halkeginian rite known as the Springtime Familiar Summoning.

Well, all of them save one.

A pink-haired girl fidgeted as she watched her classmates summon their familiars one after the other, becoming increasingly pensive at each success. Her stomach did flip-flops and she found herself backing away farther and farther, dimly aware that she was now practically hiding behind the crowd of her classmates. At this rate, she would be the last one called upon to perform the ritual, which both gave her sense of relief and worsened her anxiety at the same time. One the one hand, she wanted to get this over and done with. On the other . . . well, there were only two ways this could possibly end: success or failure. By now she was intimately acquainted with the latter, and the all-too-likely prospect of it happening for this particularly important ritual terrified her to no end.

Involuntarily she started to grind her teeth, recalling her previous attempts at performing magic. No matter what she tried and how much she had studied, all of her spells always ended in disappointment. As if the shame of that wasn't enough, they had to be _spectacular _disappointments as well. Regardless of the spell, the element, or the willpower she put behind it, all she ever got were explosions, with the only variety being how large and how loud the explosions were.

She desperately wanted to succeed at actually summoning something—_anything_—to prove that she was worthy of the nobility she had been born into, especially provided her illustrious lineage. She was Louise Françoise le Blanc de La Vallière, third daughter of the House of La Vallière, one of the most powerful and influential noble houses in all of Tristain. It had seemed a cruel and spiteful joke at her expense for one such as her to be so terrible at magic.

_And you would know of cruel, spiteful jokes, wouldn't you, Louise the Zero? After all, what else does a so-called noble who can't perform even the simplest magic deserve other than scorn and contempt? _a traitorous voice in her head jeered.

"You've summoned an impressive familiar, Ms. Zerbst," said Professor Colbert, snapping her out of her rumination. "I don't believe I've ever seen such a fine fire salamander."

"Expect nothing less from a Zerbst, Mr. Colbert," a buxom dark-skinned redhead preened, showing off her new familiar to the appreciation of the students around her.

_Of course,_ Louise mentally spat, her face setting into a grimace as she regarded one of her longtime tormentors_. It would have to be Kirche that would come right before me, and she just_had _to summon a fire salamander._

She drew back into the crowd of her classmates. Maybe if she was quiet and lucky enough Professor Colbert and everyone else would forget all about—

"Well, is that everyone?" Mr. Colbert asked, raising his voice over the din of the crowd.

Louise hissed a most unladylike curse under her breath.

"No, Mr. Colbert," Kirche said loudly, mischief in her voice. "There's still dear _little_ Ms. Vallière."

The emphasis on the _little_ didn't go over Louise's head. Louise fumed. The tall Germanian girl just always had to rub Louise's physical inadequecies in her face. As if it was normal for girls their age to be as ludicrously overdeveloped as she was.

_Damn you, Zerbst,_ she thought as she threw a baleful look at Kirche._ Damn you and your oversized height and your oversized breasts and your oversized lizard!_

As one, her classmates turned to stare at her as she trudged slowly toward Mr. Colbert. After all, there was nothing like a potential spectacle to draw in a crowd. Her lips thinned into a line.

"It's Louise the Zero," someone whispered not-quite-loudly.

"Wonder what she's going to end up summoning," someone else voiced out.

"There's no way she'll summon anything. An explosion, that's all we'll get to see. That's all we _ever_ get to see," a third voice, a female one this time, added helpfully.

The line of her lips thinned even more as everyone else began to shuffle backward, the memory of her explosive fiascos clear in their minds.

Kirche smiled at her, giving a theatrical pat to her salamander. "Given the grand reputation of the La Vallière, I'm sure we can expect a most impressive familiar. Right, Louise?"

"Of course," Louise snorted, puffing her cheeks defiantly.

Her grip on her wand tightened. _Please. Oh, Dear Founder, please . . ._

She took a deep breath to steady herself, recalling the spell she had written last night for the summoning. She had poured all of her heart and hopes into it, to the point that it was just as much a prayer to the Founder as it was a summoning spell.

"To my servant, wherever you may be . . ." she began, to the incredulity of her classmates.

"Just what kind of spell is that? Is she . . . _personalizing_ it?" a girl with her long blond hair done in curls demanded, her eye twitching.

"Now, now, at least it has some originality," said a flamboyantly attired blond boy beside her.

"To my sacred, beautiful, and above all, powerful familiar," Louise continued, pointedly ignoring everyone else, "I appeal to the Founder from the bottom of my heart to bring you to me as He sees fit. With all sincerity, I implore you to hear my plea! Heed my guidance and answer my call!"

Some of her classmates were already ducking as she waved her wand overhead. A blue-haired girl quietly peeked over the top of the book she had been reading before bringing it up over her face again, this time as an impromptu shield. Many of them hit the deck, hands protectively over their ears or clutching their familiars, as Louise brought down her wand.

The world exploded.

* * *

The twisted crescent that was the moon loomed overhead, as always its one visible eye leered intently as a stream of blood steadily dribbled from its ever-present psychotic grin. To those few who bothered to look up at the night sky to consider it—most had simply learned to ignore its maddened gaze—it seemed that the only reason the moon even gave out its pale light was so that it could see properly as it sneered at everything below it. Well, that and so people could see its mockery of them. After all, condescension was most satisfying when the target got a good look at your smugness.

This night, however, its usually general gaze seemed to be focused on one particular person: a dark-haired Japanese teen in a blue-and-white high-collared parka and dark-colored pants. The boy was unaware of the lunatic interest as he settled to a crouch on the rooftop of a dilapidated building, his own sight directed down the PGO-7 scope of the RPG-7 he had hefted over his right shoulder. He peered intently at his target—a seemingly average-looking, slightly overweight man in a generic brown coat and wool cap. He paid particular attention to the jagged eight-point pattern tattooed quite visibly on the man's left cheek.

"That's him, all right. Denny Long-Legs," he pronounced in satisfaction. He'd said it in English for the benefit of his partner. Ever since he'd moved to Death City, Nevada, to begin his tutelage as a Death Weapon Meister his originally rudimentary English had improved to the point of fluency. He could even speak it with only a slight accent now.

Not that his partner ever really appreciated it.

Speak of the devil, a translucent image of his partner's human form appeared on the edge of the scope's viewfinder. As with such images when a Demon Weapon was in weapon form, said human form appeared naked. Saito was just glad that all that was ever visible was the upper torso and head area. Not for the first time he wished he had a cute girl as a partner instead.

The distinctive cataract-like irises glared at him in his partner's usual scowl, his brown skin and even darker brown hair just emphasizing all the white. The image raised a hand and began pointing at the range markers on the viewfinder.

Saito let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. "I know, Eyes. I _have_ done this before, you know."

_And I think I know exactly where this is going,_ he thought as an all-too-familiar pit formed in his stomach.

_Lapsed attention before,_ Eyes signed to him curtly in simplified American Sign Language. Unlike spoken English, he was less proficient with ASL, but he understood enough to work with his voiceless partner—much as he sometimes wished he didn't.

"That's because _someone _always keeps distracting me just before I fire," he shot back, annoyed.

The Hispanic boy's scowl just deepened, and the visible scar on his throat seemed to darken. He raised a hand and flashed Saito a gesture that wasn't quite in the ASL Manual Alphabet. Saito just smirked in response, although it was wasted since all his partner could see of him right now was a single eye.

Saito's mirth quickly disappeared, and he pointedly turned his full attention back to his target. _Well, let's get this over with._

He shifted slightly as he adjusted his aim, making sure that his footing remained sure and steady. A _click_ told him that his partner had flipped the arming switch for him. He moved his trigger finger from the safety position and settled it lightly on the trigger as he tracked his target, who had begun to cross an agreeably wide and open cobblestone street. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the image of his partner sigh resignedly.

He knew that Eyes always hated this part.

Saito slowly exhaled and fired. Eyes's image on the viewfinder suddenly vanished.

With a puff, the antitank rocket jumped out of the tube and tore through the air with a bright, fiery tail and a loud whooshing, smoke trailing behind it. He felt the tube on his shoulder get lighter before it slackened. Saito had learned to dread that feeling.

When his partner transformed into his RPG form, his actual head always turned into the antitank rocket's warhead. This meant that the rest of his body became mindless and useless, and it was up to Saito to keep it safe until a new head regenerated in a few excruciatingly long seconds, then a longer wait until the dazed, newly reformed warhead-head regained its senses—

A loud explosion interrupted his thoughts, and Saito gazed intently at the target area, willing with all his might that the rocket had flown true. The smoke and dust began to clear, and Saito saw nothing but a small crater and some strewn debris. Against a normal human, it would have meant success. Against an Evil Human, however . . .

Saito cursed and tore his eyes away from the scope. Looking upward, he saw the image of a trench coated man high in the air, several long and wickedly sharp arachnoid legs had erupted from random places all over his now limp body. The man had reached the apex of his jump and was coming down. Right in Saito's direction.

He really hated this part.

"I seeeeeee youuuuu, little Meister!" Denny Long-Legs cackled as the boy tore off running, hopping from roof to roof. The Evil Human tore after him, spider-like legs moving impossibly fast. The thing didn't even need to jump from one rooftop to another; the legs were long enough to bridge the gaps.

_Dammit! _He silently raged as he ran. He knew this would happen. This _always_ happened. Eyes either missed or their target was strong enough to take the first blow and keep on coming, and all the while Eyes's stupid reload time kept him useless. Saito was, naturally, left with the task of keeping them both alive long enough to reload and fire again while their now pissed off target retaliated with whatever weird, stupidly powerful ability their corrupted souls lent them.

It wouldn't have been too much of a problem if Saito had some weird or special ability of his own like many other Meisters did. But no, in their infinite wisdom the instructors at the DWMA had paired up the most useless Demon Weapon imaginable with one Hiraga Saito, seventeen years of age. Average teenager of somewhat below average academic ability—

_And above average lack of a girlfriend,_ a sarcastic part of his mind added helpfully.

—and average athletic ability. Well, no, all the running away _had_ given him excellent stamina and jumping skills, for all the good that did him against twisted monsters whose stamina and jumping skills were way beyond _excellent_. That's what happened when people listened to the recommendation to put him in the EAT class by some crazy weirdo with a big honking screw literally screwed into and through the head saying that his soul had "potential," whatever that meant. They probably expected said potential to come out in a fit of raw guts and determination, just like in some shonen manga.

Teachers shouldn't be allowed to read those because right now the only true potential Saito saw was the potential for getting himself and his partner killed—maimed if they were lucky.

"What, you hit me first, and now you're running away? What kind of cowardly, second-rate Meister are you?" Denny Long-Legs taunted, his wildly skittering legs had already closed the distance to _too damned close_. "If you're gonna start trouble, then _face me_!"

"Come on. Reload already, you white-eyed idiot!" Saito growled desperately. He began banging on the RPG-7 with his left hand in frustration. At the fifth pounding, the warhead suddenly reappeared at the end of the tube. Half-startled, Saito let out a strangled, "Finally."

Skidding to a halt, he whirled around and brought the RPG-7 up to bear, trigger-finger at ready. The move almost caused him to lose balance, but he managed to remain standing. Grinning fiercely, he thumbed the arming switch and . . . it didn't move. Eyes was still too freshly dazed to arm himself.

"Oh, come on!"

The nightmarish figure of Denny Long-Legs suddenly seemed to shrink as his spindly, jagged legs suddenly stopped running and bent down in one smooth, quick motion. Then, like an uncoiling spring, the legs suddenly straightened, propelling the Evil Human right at Saito. The legs curled around and forward to bring the sharp tips to bear.

The boy jumped back at the last second and just barely avoided getting impaled by the sharp leg-points as the once-human thing landed in right front of him and tore deep into the shingles of the roof of the European-style house they were on.

"Gah!" Saito yelped, finding himself literally face-to-face with Denny Long-Legs's chubby tattooed visage. The face gazed at him with empty eyes, the entire head bent oddly to the side by the gigantic bug leg growing out the left side of the man's neck. The rest of the body hung loosely, looking like a corpse skewered every which way by the multiple legs that had torn their way through the man's flesh like a sick parody of a pincushion.

Suddenly, the slack face grinned. "Hi."

"Hello." Saito hit it in with the RPG tube. Hard. The head bent back from the force of the blow with a loud, wet _crack_.

Saito hit him again and again, each blow stronger than the last. He was raising the RPG back for another hit when the embedded legs suddenly tore free from the roof in a shower of dust and dislodged shingles. Surprised and off-balance, Saito fell painfully on his back and began sliding toward the edge of the roof. He kept hold on the RPG with his right hand and tried desperately to stop his slide by trying to grab on to the shingles with the other. He only succeeded in sending himself into a roll.

He caught sight of the grinning moon looking down on him as he tumbled off the edge. In that instant time seemed to stop, and Saito could see the moon in absolutely clarity. He could have sworn that its smile seemed to widen as it rushed past his view to be replaced by the sight of the onrushing cobblestones of the street below.

_Yeah, go and laugh, you sic—_

Pain exploded in his right thigh, and Saito heard a loud scream that he belatedly realized was coming from his own mouth. In a rush of motion the cobblestones blurred and faded into white nothingness as the pain from his leg turned into an overwhelming wave of agony that rushed over him and drowned out everything else. For an impossibly long moment, he couldn't even hear himself , as the white began to fade, he heard chuckling.

"Sorry, you're not dying that quickly, kid. But you're gonna wish you had."

Again, he found himself face-to-face with Denny Long-Legs, only this time it was upside down . . . no, _he_ was upside down he realized as the background came into focus. Saito could barely make out the eight-pointed tattoo on the man's face, so bloody and broken it was. Blearily, through the pain from his impaled leg and the disorientation, Saito wondered how Denny could even see him through all the blood. The young Meister let out a pained chuckle of his own.

"That's a good look for you."

Denny smiled, revealing several missing and broken teeth. "Let me return the favor."

One of the legs raised lazily off the ground and slowly positioned itself right in front of Saito's face. He tensed for the facial blow. Faster than he could properly see, it snapped forward in a blur—and stabbed into Saito's stomach. Surprised, the teen was jarred into letting go of the RPG, and it clattered to the roof and got lodged warhead-up into one of the holes Denny's legs had left earlier. He let out another scream, but forcefully bit his mouth close to stifle it. He wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction.

"Oops," Denny cooed mockingly, "I missed."

With a tearing sound and a spray of blood, Denny pulled the leg out of Saito's stomach and stabbed it into his upper left torso before Saito could even grunt in pain. Saito clenched his eyes and clamped his teeth down mightily against yet another scream, feeling his ribs shattering as the leg dug itself into his lung. He felt as if he was drowning as the blood from his now-ruptured lung flowed down his throat and pooled in his mouth, the coppery tang and the obstruction of the blood causing him to cough and hack it out in labored gasps.

Denny giggled hysterically. "Oh no, missed again."

_Click._

At the sound, Saito's eyes snapped open. He saw the fallen RPG shift position, pointing its rocket directly at Denny's torso. He smiled.

"He won't."

The RPG fired; the rocket punched into Denny's chest, pushing him off the roof from the sheer force of impact. Saito, right thigh still pierced by one of Denny's legs, found himself falling off the roof for the second time that day. This time, however, he was ready and managed to grab hold of the rafters with both arms as he passed over the edge. It buckled but held, and Saito felt another stab of white-hot pain as Denny's leg tore free of his own, drowning out the pain in his arms from grabbing the rafters. Distantly, he heard the latter's body hit the street below, the rocket exploding it into a gory mess of human parts and inhuman legs.

Fighting through the pain, Saito pulled himself up from the rafters and onto the roof before said rafters could fail completely, several agonized moans now freely escaping from his throat. Not an easy task on raw, bleeding arms (the rafters' edges hadn't exactly been soft); a punctured lung; a stabbed gut; and a run-through leg that was refusing to move right. By the time he reached the roof, he collapsed in an exhausted heap, swimming in pain. His vision began to darken, but he stubbornly forced himself to stay awake.

_Need . . . to get out . . . of here . . . Get soul . . ._

He found himself laughingly weakly, which turned into a bloody gurgling. Who was he kidding? In this state he'd be lucky to call for help, much less get up and go to wherever that explosion had blown the soul of the late Denny Long-Legs to so they could catch it. And this was his first successful mission, too. For a given level of "successful."

_Not fair . . ._

He turned his head and caught sight of the RPG-7 that was his partner. He reached out slowly and closed his hand around the again-empty tube.

"Your fault . . ." he managed to wheeze out, giving the launcher a weak squeeze just as the warhead reappeared. His lips curled into a rueful smile. "Useless . . ."

_Mrs. Hiraga,_ he imagined the message to his mother the DWMA would send, _your son, Saito, has left the world of the living. He will not be able to attend school for quite some time, nor will he be able to study. Please forgive him._

At that moment, a shining mirror-like object appeared and hovered right above him. Saito stopped to take a good long look at it, not quite trusting his eyes—his natural curiosity at the sudden appearance somehow managing to ignore the intense pain.

_Whuh? Mirror? _His eyes widened. _Mirror!_

Lord Death himself must have seen how badly they had screwed up even this "success" and was stepping in to save their asses himself. At any other time, Saito's proud and stubborn side might have raged at the humiliation. Right now, however, all he felt was relief.

_42-42-564, whenever you want to knock on Death's door . . . Heh, appropriate, _he thought wryly—bitterly—as he reached with his free hand to scrawl the number on the mirror. His finger made contact.

He immediately regretted it. An intense shock assailed his senses, and Saito blacked out.

* * *

A pretty young woman hummed cheerfully as she opened the door to one of the rooms in the female students' dormitory. She had short black hair in a neat bob cut and looked young enough—and indeed, was young enough—to be mistaken for the room's occupant if it wasn't for the maid uniform she wore and the cleaning implements she carried along. Smiling, she looked around and regarded the room, nodding in approval at the size. It was a sizeable, well-furnished place and would take several minutes for any single servant to put in order.

Siesta of Tarbes was not just any single servant.

Closing the door firmly behind her, she set to work at a speed that would have been regarded as astounding had there been anyone there to observe her. In a span of time three—_No, four,_she thought, perhaps a little boastfully—times faster than any other servant in the academy could have achieved, she had finished cleaning and arranging the room and the fine bathroom adjacent to it. She knew this for certain since she had been observing how her coworkers generally moved since she'd been hired and had a very good idea of how fast they could do certain tasks. None of them could come remotely close to her thanks to her clan training. Not that anyone needed to know that, of course.

She now had the rest of her expected cleaning time to do with as she pleased. Just a relatively short moment, a few minutes at most, but she found that time enjoyable all the same. Sometimes she took short naps as doing so was something of a hobby for her, and napping on the job without being caught was great fun as a personal challenge. Other times, however, she indulged in another activity: people watching.

Satisfied, she went over to a window, careful to position herself in a way that would make her difficult to spot from the outside. She leaned against the wall in a way that allowed her well-honed senses to pick up sounds and vibrations. Siesta had come to love stonework castles. They carried sound so well; she could always tell when someone was approaching from quite a distance away.

She observed the group of second years gathered outside as they took part in the Springtime Familiar Summoning. It appeared that most of them had already completed the ritual since she could only see a few with anxious, fidgety body language. Having the opportunity to observe nobles learn their art like this was always interesting, especially since her clan elders had always admonished her and her siblings to be very careful and wary around nobles due to their power and avoid their attention whenever they were beyond clan grounds. In observing them like this unseen—like a shadow—she always felt like she was living the tales of her ancestors that had been passed down from her great-grandfather. Recently, she had embellished her fantasies with details borrowed from the charming books on romance and intrigue her fellow maids had introduced to her, though she was more interested in the intrigue than the romance. Well, mostly.

_Mademoiselle Siesta regarded the duke demurely from the corner of her finely lashed eyes, allowing a light coquettish blush to color her cheeks. She knew beyond a doubt that despite the duke's seemingly animate flirtations with the ladies around him, his eyes were on her and her alone. She was confident of her skill and womanly wiles and already knew that, without even having to talk to or approach him, the duke was already wrapped around her finger. _

_She observed his immaculately groomed mustache as he finally approached her, which lent his middle-aged face a kind, soft, and almost paternal appearance. Her painted lips curled slightly. _

_This would be most enjoyable._

_She would allow him to bed her tonight, and the next morning, he would tell her all his secrets. And if he did not?_

_Well, at least tonight would be quite pleasant . . ._

Siesta placed a hand to her mouth, unable to suppress a giggle. She knew her flights of fancy were a childish indulgence her clan elders would have disapproved of, but it helped relieve the boredom of her relatively humdrum work days.

The students were just about finished now, with only the pink-haired noble trying to edge her way to the back of the crowd showing any signs of anxiety. Siesta knew of her—in fact, most in the academy did, albeit for different reasons. The nobles knew her as an inept mage, and Siesta knew many of her fellow students heaped scorn upon her for it. Siesta, who sometimes found herself annoyed by the arrogance of nobles (and the unwanted attention of noble males, men and boys alike), felt a twinge of pity for her. Just a twinge. She'd heard the girl could be quite arrogant herself, which wasn't surprising given her much-touted lineage.

Her fellow servants, however, knew of her in terms of exasperation rather than contempt. The young pink-haired noblewoman was notorious for her spell failures ending in explosions and, consequently, terrible messes that the commoners had to clean up after. Siesta, who had yet to experience cleaning up one of said messes, had seen one of such failures from a distance once. She recalled being envious of all the smoke the young girl had produced.

_All that smoke at will without having to painstakingly make and carry smoke bombs? Founder, what I wouldn't give for that!_

As if in agreement with her thoughts, she saw most of the courtyard below suddenly obscured by a cloud of black smoke. A short moment thereafter, she heard a muffled bang. Siesta felt another stab of jealousy as she watched the smoke begin to clear. She wondered if the noble girl had managed to summon anything at all. From the looks of things, this seemed like yet another failure. She also wonder if the gardeners around the area were either praying or cursing right about now.

She leaned just the slightest bit closer and squinted, noting a vague shape that she was starting to discern in the middle of the dissipating cloud. The shape appeared oddly . . .

_Human? _she thought. Despite all the observation she'd done since she had been hired, all she really knew about magic were vague generalities. Still, she was fairly certain that familiars could be all manner of creatures, but never humans.

Weren't they?

Then the last vestiges of the smoke cleared, and Siesta found herself suddenly becoming very alert.

The human form that the pink-haired mage had seemingly summoned was clearly sprawled on his back, and even at this distance Siesta could tell that there were dark spots of what was unmistakably blood on his clothing.

Louise heard several students hacking and coughing at the smoke from her attempt at summoning. She put her own hands over her mouth, desperately trying not to cough herself from the dirty clouds that had been raised by her explosion. She opened her eyes slowly, pointedly ignoring the several cries of "I knew it, I knew this would happen!"

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and rage as the expected mockery and jeering started among her classmates even before the others had stopped coughing. In the backdrop of the laughter and insults, she heard Kirche's distinctive "ohohohoh," causing Louise to bite her lower lip.

"Well, I have to admit, Vallière, that was _amazing_."

Louise felt herself growing even angrier. She rounded on Kirche to deliver an angry retort only to have even more of the lingering dust assault her throat, reducing her into a hacking, wheezing mess. Her face grew bright red from the shame, anger, and lack of oxygen even as the laughter and name-calling intensified around her.

"Way to go, Louise the Zero!" said a voice in mock congratulations. "I bet that was your biggest explosion yet!"

"They must have heard that all the way in Albion!" cried another amid the delighted cackling.

"Enough!" Professor Colbert's voice cut sternly through the air. "This heckling is no way for noble students to act."

"Founder!" a female voice suddenly gasped, interrupting the teacher in the middle of his reprimand. "Vallière k-killed somebody! The Zero finally went and killed somebody!"

At that exclamation Louise's head snapped around in near unison with everyone else's toward the center of the summoning field. Through the lasts wisps of smoke and dust, she could see a small crater, but that wasn't what caught her eye: in the middle was the dark-haired figure of a boy, perhaps about her age, lying on his back unmoving. On his clothes were dark stains.

Blood.

"V-Vallière . . ." she distantly heard Kirche mutter in shock as her own blood ran cold, "what have you done?"

Gasps of surprise and cries of accusation erupted all around Louise, but she was no longer paying attention to them. She stared transfixed at what she had apparently summoned, mind numb and mouth hanging open in shock, even as Mr. Colbert bolted toward the fallen figure, turning to the nearest two students.

"Guiche, Montmorency," he said urgently to the blond boy-and-girl pair, "go and call the academy healers. Hurry!"

The two students nodded quickly and, with an exchange of uncertain looks between them, levitated away hurriedly. The rest of the students milled around uncertainly, hovering over the scene in a disorganized semicircle.

_I . . . I did that?_ Louise mentally uttered in sheer disbelief as she continued to stare, noting dimly that her teacher had begun to tear open the clothes of the fallen figure to expose the wounds, quickly administering one healing spell after another. _But . . . how? He wasn't . . . I didn't . . . Did he walk into . . . But, no. No! There had been no one . . . But he's . . . Oh, oh Founder. Oh, Dear Founder . . . _

Tears began to stream down her cheeks as her knees buckled, causing her to topple forward and land painfully on her elbows. She continued to stare at what had happ—no, what _she_ had made happen. A groan escaped her lips and quickly degenerated into sobs.

It was over. She hadn't just failed, but her failure had hurt somebody . . . had possibly _killed_ somebody. It didn't matter what had happened or how it had happened, the result was clear for all to see. Louise Françoise, shame of the House of La Vallière, had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was less than a noble—less than even a commoner. She was nothing but scum and—

She felt a had land lightly on her right shoulder, and she flinched violently. Looking up fearfully, Louise was surprised to see the familiar face of a certain blue-haired classmate. "T-Tabitha?"

"Not dead. Also not your fault," Tabitha stated in her usual taciturn monotone, and Louise could've sworn that it was a bit gentler than her usually cold demeanor. Or she would have had her mind not been trying to make sense of the Gallian girl's words.

"W-wha . . .?" the pink-haired girl managed to choke out.

"Stabbed," Tabitha pronounced as she pointed with her staff, and Louise found her eyes following it, "not exploded."

Wiping her eyes, Louise took a closer look at her summon, and she couldn't quite suppress a nauseated churn in her stomach now that she was seeing the boy's injuries without the haze of shock and tears. Professor Colbert, looking far more serious than Louise had ever seen him before, was still attending to the wounds and was currently using a water spell to drain blood from a large sucking hole just under the unconscious boy's left breast. And unconscious he was; Louise could see the bloodied chest move ever so slightly.

"She's right, Ms. Vallière," the balding bespectacled teacher reassured her even as he cast another spell to arrest the bleeding. "These are clearly injuries sustained from some sort of stabbing weapon, perhaps lances, just before you apparently summoned him here. The simple cut and color patterns of his clothing suggest a uniform of some sort, and I suspect this young man is military."

He turned to look at her, and the uncharacteristically serious expression on his face softened. "You must have summoned him just before he was about to be killed."

"I-I did?" Louise gasped, not daring to believe but hoping nonetheless.

"Yes, you might have just saved his life," Colbert added kindly, face barely showing the tiniest of hints of effort at the rapid string of healing spells he had just performed. Then his face hardened again as he began looking around. "I've managed to stem the bleeding and prevent the blood from drowning his punctured lung. The injuries themselves are quite severe, but he appears stable enough and the healers should be arriving soon."

Louise stood up slowly, her spirits finally lifting. "Oh, thank the Founder . . . Thank the gods . . ." she whispered under her breath. She hadn't killed anybody. _She hadn't killed anybody!_

She felt Tabitha removing the hand on her shoulder, and she found herself suddenly facing the blue-haired girl awkwardly, having just realized what she'd done. They'd never been friends—in fact, Louise usually counted her among her enemies, if only because the Gallian girl was friends with one of her most persistent tormentors, Kirche. On one hand, she'd never seen Tabitha actively joining in the taunting as the quiet girl usually preferred to hang back silently. On the other hand, she also never really seemed to oppose the sometimes utterly vicious teasing, and Louise couldn't quite shake the feeling that the girl judged her in silence.

Louise opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again. She bit her lip and her eyes darted from side to side as Tabitha regarded her impassively. She just had no idea what to say to her given their history. She forced herself to open her mouth and look at Tabitha steadily, but at that point the blue-haired mage had already made the decision for her and was now looking at the unconscious form before them.

"A soldier, hm?" Kirche's singsong voice suddenly cut in. "Silly Little Louise, it's the dashing young warrior who saves the hapless noblewoman, not the other way around. Ah, even such a simple thing you apparently can't grasp? Tsk, tsk . . ."

Feeling her anger clawing its way free from the ball of feelings that her disastrous summoning had jumbled, Louise whirled on Kirche, ready to hurl abuse at her old rival. The smile on Kirche's face, however, gave her pause. It wasn't her usual mocking smirk but the kind of smile one would give to a friend to show that a disparaging remark had been meant in friendly jest. The anger stumbled and found itself again swimming in a roiling ball of confusion. This . . . this just wasn't right. _Kirche_ of all people trying to lighten the mood with a friendly joke? They had never, _ever_ been close to acting friendly, not since they had first met and figured out that they both belonged to long-opposed noble houses on opposite sides of a national border. In fact, some of the most hurtful insults she'd endured had come from the very same lips now smiling at her.

Just what in the world was the Germanian redhead playing at?

Apparently seeing the turmoil on her face, Kirche just gave her a theatrical shrug. Then, as if purposely changing the subject, she looked down and regarded the still unconscious figure on the ground.

"Hm . . . then that must be his weapon," Kirche declared. Seeing Louise's continued confusion, Kirche smiled. This time, it was a much more familiar mischievous smile. "Oh, I'm not looking at _that_ weapon, Little Louise. That would be in very poor taste."

It took a second for Louise to process that, and when she did . . . "B-bwuh . . . that's not what I was thinking of, you lecherous deviant!"

She looked down in a huff as Kirche just gave her another infuriating smile (at least Kirche was acting as expected now). Louise noticed what she had missed in her earlier bout of despair. There was indeed something in the young boy's—soldier's?—right hand. On first glance it appeared to be a scepter made of wood and some black-painted material—metal?—with a head that appeared to be two cones placed together at the base. However, the shaft of the scepter seemed too thick to hold comfortably, and Louise wondered how one could properly wield such a heavy and clumsy-looking thing. Then she caught two extensions jutting out at a right angle on one side of the strange object. The first extension had what appeared to be trigger.

"A . . . a musket?" Louise said uncertainly. She'd never been too familiar with firearms as she thought them beneath her notice. They were mostly commoner weapons, after all.

"Too big," Professor Colbert said authoritatively. "The dimensions remind me more of a small canon, and the seeming handles appear rather awkwardly placed. I also see no visible indications of a matchlock, flintlock, or wheel-lock mechanism . . ."

"You seem to know quite a bit about muskets, Professor," Kirche observed, not quite accusingly, "and you seem to know your way around healing spells."

"I have a great interest in many subjects, Ms. Zerbst, and I've learned some useful things," he answered, smiling nonchalantly. "After all, I teach because I love learning and helping others learn."

Kirche quirked an eyebrow up at that, but dropped the matter with a slight shrug.

The teacher, meanwhile, had a taken on thoughtful expression on his face. Then, looking down, he cast what Louise recognized as a Detect Magic spell. Colbert's expression became puzzled. "Ah . . ."

Louise, still confused and starting to get a bit fidgety, said, "What? What is it?"

"There's magic," he answered, expression growing even more and more quizzical, ". . . of a sort."

"Magic? So does that mean"—Louise felt her mouth hit the floor—"I summoned a fighting mage, a _noble_?"

"Possibly," came the reply, "but I can't be completely certain as of now."

She felt her feelings plummeting again. A noble. She had summoned a fellow noble to be her familiar. An icy pit formed in her stomach. No, it wasn't as bad as accidentally killing someone with a misfired spell, but it was an undesirable outcome nonetheless. The political ramifications could be bad enough, especially if she had inadvertently summoned a scion of some powerful or influential house. Worse if the unconscious boy was a foreign noble. Oh, her mother was going to _kill_ her . . .

. . . But hadn't Mr. Colbert said that she had saved the boy's life? And she'd yet to complete the familiar contract, so she technically hadn't made a servant of him yet. That had to count to for something, didn't it?

"Of a sort?" Tabitha prompted, repeating the words Louise had missed in her panic.

The professor remained silent for a bit, as if considering what to say. He looked at the students around him, all waiting expectantly for an answer. Finally, he opened his mouth, "The spell detected something, but it feels somehow . . . off. Perhaps the severity of his injuries and the possible willpower drain have something to do with it as the reading also seems rather weak—Ah! Over here, quickly!"

At the abrupt exclamation, the students turned to see a group of academy healers levitating toward them, Guiche and Montmorency in tow. Mr. Colbert and the students backed away to give the healers some room. One laid a stretcher on the ground as another prepared to cast a levitation spell to gently lift the unresponsive and injured form onto it. A third consulted with Mr. Colbert, who quickly filled him in on the healing spells that he had casted. Louise hovered nearby, careful to keep enough of a distance to allow the healers to move unimpeded. Whatever had happened and whoever she'd summoned, he was her responsibility now, so she would stay by his side and wait until she could explain herself to him personally.

Without warning, the two healers by the stretcher were thrown back. One of them almost crashed into Louise, causing her to yelp in alarm. Suddenly alert, Mr. Colbert moved, staff at ready, and yelled for everyone to back away. The healer he had been talking to had reacted more slowly, but he too now had his wand out and ready. As she backed away, Louise saw Tabitha around the corner of her eyes. The quiet girl's staff was also raised. Beside her was Kirche, grasping her wand with a serious expression on her face. All of them were looking intently at the figure that had appeared out of nowhere and was now standing protectively over the unconscious boy.

The figure was tall and lanky and draped in a loose and ill-fitting . . . coat? It was strangely colored in a haphazard mottle of grey, white, and black and was left unbuttoned—in fact, it didn't even seem to have buttons or laces or any other type of fastener Louise could see. Under the coat was what appeared to be a white cotton peasant's shirt that was sloppily not tucked into a pair of strange and baggy shortened trousers that stopped just below the knees. Completing the strange garb was a pair of thick boots with several bits of what looked like metal stuck to them. What skin she could see appeared to be brown, but of a lighter shade than Kirche's.

All in all, Louise would have thought the figure to be some sort of peasant in a weird manner of dress, possibly a performer of some sort, if it wasn't for one particular detail: instead of a human head, the figure sported an enlarged version of the head of the "scepter" instead.

And it was pointed right at them.

* * *

_. . . Denny Long-Legs._

Expectation

_I know, Eyes . . . _

Irritation

_. . . distracting me just before I fire._

Exasperation.

Resignation

A click. A breath. A trigger-pull.

Propulsion

Explosion

Breakneck speed. Sudden light. Faster darkness.

Oblivion

_Oh, come on!_

_Wham! Wham! Wham!_

Regeneration

Confusion

A drop. A jerk. A scream.

_. . . not dying that quickly, kid . . ._

A drop. An impact. Another scream.

_. . . missed._

_. . . missed again._

Realization

Decision

An adjustment. A click.

_He won't._

Impaction

A slam. A thud. A boom.

Disorientation

A laugh. A gurgle. A squeeze.

_Useless . . ._

Consolation

A mirror.

Death's door.

_42-42-564 . . . _

A shock. A flash.

Commotion

Consternation

Agitation

A voice. Voices. Closer. Louder.

Restoration

Cognition

Eyes Javit's senses came back to him like a train into an unfortunate car; the muddled, half-formed thoughts and memories seemed to almost physically snap into him as they came into sharp focus. His vision, which defaulted to the PGO-7 scope when he was in RPG form, also came back just as suddenly, contributing to the momentary information overload. Forcing his attention to focus on sight alone, he peered out only to be annoyed by the too close image of a sleeved hand clutching onto the tube of his RPG form and obstructing the view.

_Dammit, Hiraga,_ he thought as he shifted his vision onto the tip of the rocket projectile, which was his secondary viewing point in weapon form and the only viewing point during the unpleasant moments when he had to fire.

His view was blocked here as well, this time by what was clearly a pair of squatting legs. Immediately, the last thing he had seen before he had fired leapt forward from the confusing swirl of suddenly clearing memories: a nightmarish multi-legged form standing over him, with Hiraga impaled on one of its legs while being tortured. And now they were both on the ground, a form closely leaning over them—far too close for him to shoot at.

Panicking now, Eyes did the first thing that screamed desperately into his mind.

He suddenly shifted into his part-weapon form, swinging his arms as widely and as wildly as he could as he did so. He could feel both arms connecting hard and would have winced in pain had he possessed a face. Bringing down the now proportionately large HEAT warhead that remained in lieu of his head by bodily leaning his torso forward, Eyes quickly swept it from one side to the other, quietly cursing the fact that his viewing point in this form remained at the tip. What he saw turned wild panic into sudden puzzlement.

_Wha . . . Daytime? . . . Grassy field? . . . People? . . . Where'd they? . . . What the hell is going on?_ he mentally demanded as his stunned brain tried to come up with an answer.

The two people closest to him struggled to stand up, and Eyes realized that these guys were the ones his sudden transformation had thrown. Neither of them looked like Denny Long-Legs. In fact, no one around looked like Denny Long-Legs. There were two others dressed in robes just like the two he had knocked down, and all four of them were clearly adults. The rest looked like kids around he and Hiraga's age range, and they were dressed in what looked like school uniforms with capes. Distributed throughout the crowd were creatures of all shapes and sizes, including what looked like a blue dragon and a giant floating eyeball. All of them were looking at him, and the people closest to him were pointing sticks—wands?—and staves in his direction. There was no mistaking the intent behind the pointing: those things were weapons of some kind.

Eyes cursed his luck. Out of the frying pan and into . . . well, whatever kind of fire this was. The crowd was keeping back right now, but given their numbers Eyes knew that he was in a bad situation. In his part-weapon form he couldn't fire unless he wanted to blow up his torso with the vented backblast, and in his full weapon form he couldn't aim himself. The only thing he could do right now was wave his weaponized noggin around and hope he could buy time for . . . something. He wished he had a face to grimace with.

_Useless._

Hiraga's favorite descriptor of him came unbidden to his mind, and he ruthlessly fought it down. At least, he was trying to when a treacherous part of him sneered, _But he's right, isn't he? You're more liability than weapon, always have been. _

Had he teeth, the Weapon would have gritted them. It's not like he had wanted to be in the EAT (Especially Advantaged Talent) class; he would have been perfectly happy to have been placed in the NOT (Normally Overcome Target) class. Hell, he and Hiraga _should_ have been in the NOT class, but no, he was an RPG-7 and Hiraga had "potential," so off to near-certain death you go to unlock it, kids!

He clenched his fists as he continued to look warily at the crowd around him, desperately looking for a way out and finding none. Well, no, not quite none. He could always shift to a thermobaric warhead and take a few down with him if they started in on them, but like hell did he want to die for Hiraga's sake. He didn't even want to die for _his own_ sake.

_Just what did you get us into, Hiraga?_ he thought as he slowly inched back to a distance that allowed him to view Hiraga with his now fixed field of vision while not looking away from the group who was also slowly taking positions around him.

His partner came to view, and he couldn't stop himself from cringing. Hiraga was seriously messed up, and there was blood all over his torso and right leg.

_Oh, God . . . Is he . . . _

Then he saw the older boy's chest moving, and his shoulders slumped slightly in relief. Looking even more closely now, he also realized that for all the blood he could see, it didn't seem to be pouring out and pooling. He started to slowly move forward again protectively. The Meister would never be his favorite person, but like hell did he deserve _this_.

Someone suddenly called out in a loud voice, and Eyes whipped around with a start, causing several in the crowd to jerk back nervously. The source of the voice, a balding man with glasses and a staff, had not been one of them and was looking at him steadily. The man's free hand was raised up in placating gesture, but Eyes still cast a wary glance at the staff, which was still held at the ready. Given the man's age, Eyes assumed that he was probably the one in authority here.

The man spoke to him again in a language he couldn't understand. Slowly, Eyes shook his head, both to signal that he couldn't understand and to keep an eye on the rest of the crowd. The balding man spoke again, this time slowly and enunciating clearly, which sparked some irritation in the Weapon. Receding Hairline reminded him of the idiots who thought he was deaf just because he used sign language and . . .

His annoyance trailed off as he realized that the words were familiar. He still couldn't understand it, but it had sounded a lot like French to him.

_France? What the hell am I doing in France? Just what happened last night? Was it even last night?_ he wondered. He wracked his brain, trying to recall the details of the mission against Denny Long-Legs. Frustratingly, the only really clear memories were of events just before the two times he'd been fired. The rest were just relatively vague hints and flashes. He did recall something that seemed like Hiraga reaching for a mirror, though.

Glancing again at the uniforms around him, Eyes began to wonder if Hiraga's last call to Lord Death—if that was indeed what he had recalled—had somehow gotten its wires crossed and consequently plopped them in a French equivalent of the DWMA. As soon as that thought came to him, he recognized how unlikely it was. No, the DWMA was _the_ Meister-Weapon academy, and he had never heard of Lord Death authorize any other such place. After all, Death City, Nevada, was the only place on Earth under the direct aegis of the very soul of Death. So just where was this exactly, and who were these people?

Another voice called out him, this time in what sounded a lot like German. Upon turning, Eyes found himself thankful for his current confusion, nervousness, and lack of face because they circumvented the instinctive reaction he would have had to the sight that greeted him. That she was a female around his age would've made him skittish (read, blubbering wreck) enough, but the fact that the dark-skinned redhead that came into his view was . . . _damn_ . . . and had left her blouse unbuttoned to show off . . . no, no, he was adamantly refusing to go there. In every sense of the word. Adamantly.

She spoke again, this time doing so in a friendly manner that resulted in the movement of . . . _Stop_.

The Demon Weapon shook his head to signal his incomprehension again, glad for the excuse to turn away. Still, as he was shaking his head he managed to catch a view of her shrugging apologetically to Receding Hairline, causing—

_No._

_Adamantly._

"How about this language?" Receding Hairline suddenly cut in. "Do you understand Albionese?"

_Finally, English,_ he thought, nodding slowly. _But Albionese? What?_

"Ah!" the man exclaimed in what sounded like pleased satisfaction, although Eyes noted that the man still looked wary and alert. "Good. I am Professor Jean Colbert, and you are in the Tristain Academy of Magic. It seems that you and your master were accidentally summoned here."

At that, a petite pink-haired girl in the group flinched, although he was trying his damnedest not to look at her, or any other girl for that matter.

_Summoned? That explains the scenery change,_ Eyes considered. Then his eyes widened—well, figuratively. _Wait, Tristain Academy of _Magic_? Then that means . . . Oh, we are so fucked._

Everyone knew that magic was the province of Witches, and most of the time that meant _bad news_. The Sway of Magic was known to exacerbate destructive tendencies over time, and most Witches usually got corrupted into twistedly dangerous monsters with a fetish for destruction and torture. If this was an entire academy of them . . . Suddenly, blowing themselves up started sounding like a very, very good option. Especially since they apparently came to the logical conclusion that Hiraga was his Meister—although using the English word for it kinda made him sound annoyingly like Hiraga's servant—and Witches, as a rule, _really_ did not like students of Lord Death. The feeling was generally mutual.

_But then again, Witches don't generally use wands, do they? They don't need them, right? _Eyes asked himself, grasping at the slightest hope. _And aren't they usually female? About half the kids here and all but one of the four adults are dudes. Also, no one's wearing a witch hat. Witches love those damn things— _

A loud _ah_ sounded from the pink-haired girl, interrupting his thoughts, as she opened her mouth to say something. Before she could, however, Receding Hairline raised a hand and shook his head kindly to stop her.

"Rest assured that no insult was meant in the summoning of your master," Receding Hairline continued, "and neither did we intend to bind him as a familiar after we ascertained his magical status."

_Wait, what? Binding? And Hiraga's magic now? _Then a word clicked in his mind, and Eyes's mood sank even further. _"Familiar." He definitely said "familiar." Crap, they really are Witches. But if Hiraga's magic, then . . . he's one of _them_. But that's . . . Dammit, he's a jerk, but he's not a Witch . . . right? _

"We know your first instinct as his . . . _apparent_ familiar is to protect him," Receding Hairline was still talking, "but we assure you that we meant him no harm. We have applied medical spells to stabilize his condition, but he is still in dire need of further treatment."

Now this was making less and less sense to Eyes. He was clearly a Demon Weapon, not a familiar. Hell, hadn't they called Hiraga his Meister? No, wait, they had used the word _master_. So did that mean . . . But Witches' familiars were clearly and wholly inhuman—at this, Eyes, regarded the plethora of creatures around him warily—while right now he was mostly human aside from his grenade head. And for a bunch of apparent Witches, these guys were nice and considerate. . . Almost _too _nice and considerate. And, well, sane. Just what were they playing at here?

"Please, let our healers take him and finish his treatment. You have my assurance that we will do the utmost to heal him properly."

"A-and as the one who s-summoned your master," the pinked-haired girl—Cotton Candy, Eyes decided—began nervously, stuttering at first, "I, Louise Françoise le Blanc de La Vallière, third daughter of the House of La Vallière, take full responsibility for his well-being. I swear upon my noble duty that I will do everything within my ability to set this right, and I will explain myself fully to your master and his house when he regains consciousness."

Eyes stared at the two of them, trying and failing to process what they had just said. _T-they think Hiraga is some sort of fancy ranked Witch? And that I'm Hiraga's familiar? _

His mind percolated, trying to see if this was just some sort of elaborate ruse. Were these Witches just lulling them into a false sense of security so they could later . . . do things not worth thinking about right now. But then again, why? With their numbers and with Hiraga unconscious and seriously wounded, they had them dead to rights. There was no need to do all this just to get them to surrender.

Unless these Witches wanted them alive.

He shuddered.

_But . . ._ a part of his mind still hoped, _they . . . seem sincere enough. At least Cotton Candy does. Receding Hairline has one hell of a poker face. If they were serious, then maybe—just maybe—I can play this apparent case of mistaken identity for as much as it's worth. Or at least to buy us enough time to find a way to get out of here, maybe get Hiraga patched up in the process._

Eyes's stomach knotted. Trusting Witches was insane, but his only other options here were 1) try to run off with Hiraga and get jumped, so explode to prevent capture and horribleness; 2) try to fight his way out while carrying Hiraga, get his ass kicked, and explode to prevent capture and horribleness; or 3) try to bluff his way out, likely fail, get jumped, and explode to prevent capture and horribleness. At least this one had some remote chance. Some. And if this went ploin-shaped, well, he always had the option of exploding himself.

The sad part was, part of him actually did find that comforting. He was definitely going insane, or maybe the world was. Given his and Hiraga's recent luck, probably both.

Finally, he nodded his assent and backed away from Hiraga's still form. Cautiously, two of the healers approached, with one of them picking up the stretcher that had been cast aside when they had been hurled back earlier. Eyes kept a watchful warhead on them as they lay the stretcher flat on the ground beside his partner. One of them raised a wand, and Eyes tensed in response.

"I'm casting a spell to lift him gently to the stretcher, that's all," the healer assured him somewhat nervously.

After a moment of consideration, Eyes nodded again. The healer waved the wand and muttered something, and the unconscious Meister lifted ever so lightly off the ground, hovering a few inches above it, and slid gently over to the stretcher before settling down upon it. The two of them then picked up the stretcher, and a third one cast a similar spell on them. Hovering a few inches off the ground temselves now, the healers kept the stretcher as even and stable as possible as they moved forward faster than walking speed.

Satisfied, Eyes raised his warhead to the sky as a sign of good faith.

He froze.

The sun was . . . _wrong_. Instead of the smiling bright-yellow ball with lumpy spikes, it had been replaced by a glaringly bright orb that looked for all the world like an oversized spotlight. Most disturbing of all, _it had no face_.

Eyes's shock was severe enough to rock him back fully into his human form. He was still gaping at the sky as the crowd around him greeted his abrupt change with cries of surprise, only looking away when the pain in his eyes became unbearable.

_Where the hell am I?_


	2. Chapter 2: Reactions and Assumptions

Yeah, this chapter took much longer to get out than expected. I wanted to get it out in January, but I ended up making major revisions twice. It was mostly because I originally planned to have Saito wake up in the middle of the chapter. However, it just didn't flow right, so I had to save his scenes for next chapter while moving others I'd planned for that chapter up to this one. As such, next chapter's gonna be a bot more Saito-centric.

Silver Winged King: I know. It's just that if I have this as a crossover I can't put Saito's name in the second character slot.

Chapter 2: Reactions and Assumptions

It was yet another bright morning over the Tristain Academy of Magic, and the sun shone dazzlingly. Rays of light rippled across the rooms of the students and many of the noble staff, dampened into a refreshing gradual brightness that served as a wake-up call to the sleeping forms within the rooms. A number who resisted the touch of sunlight found themselves waking nonetheless from the gentle, if at times clumsy, nuzzling of their familiars. Several nobles and all of the commoner staff were already awake, the former mostly early birds by choice or duty and the latter purely from a rigidly busy workday. Despite that difference, the nobles and commoners alike mostly greeted the new day with good enough spirits.

Louise was not one of them.

She had not so much awakened as she had simply opened her eyes and stopped trying to convince herself that she was asleep. To say that the night had been fitful was an understatement, and her mood was foul enough to hold such an understatement over you should you make the mistake of making such an asinine observation in her presence. The girl had spent the entire night simply staring at the roof of her bed, intermittently closing her eyes only to open them again minutes or even seconds later. Consequently, her eyes were bloodshot, and her long and wavy hair was so frayed and frazzled that it almost seemed to have grown horizontally to either side.

Needless to say, the last twenty-four hours—less than that, even—had not done wonders for her state of mind. Whereas the rest of her classmates had spent the rest of yesterday getting to know their familiars and showing them off to each other, she had spent that time in the Academy's infirmary watching in growing unease and worry as the academy healers worked tirelessly on the young noble soldier, possibly a mage knight, that her failed summoning had inadvertently kidnapped. Not even Professor Colbert's repeated reassurances that, whatever else, she had saved a life did little to lift her spirits. In an attempt to ease her mind she had even given out quite a tidy sum for expensive medical reagents the healers did not have on stock, hoping that they would help. The healers had been thankful but had also mentioned that even with the hastiest courier such reagents could not be procured and delivered at least until sometime tomorrow.

Someone—in her emotional turmoil she had not paid enough attention to remember who—had suggested that she hadn't needed to watch to spare her the discomfort, but despite the temptation she had refused. She was the daughter of the stalwart Karin Désirée de La Vallière, and despite (and partly because of) her failure to do her mother proud as a mage, she would not fail the Rule of Steel that her mother expected her to live by. A noble's duty was like a sword, used to protect the unprotected and follow the course of the hand that wielded it without question. Like a sword, a noble's sacred duty was forged to be as hard as steel and must be followed with a will as strong as steel. In summoning him, the injured noble boy had become her responsibility, and whatever the consequences or the personal discomfort, she would not shirk it.

Of course, it hadn't helped her resolve one bit to the have shared the sidelines in the infirmary with the summoned boy's familiar. Firstly, the strange familiar's presence had only served to accentuate her magical inadequacy. Her first spell that could remotely be called a success, and she had summoned a mage who, by all that was right and holy, not only could not be bound as a familiar but also had a familiar of his own. It had seemed to be an even crueler punch line to an already cruel joke at her expense.

Secondly, well, the familiar was simply _terrifying_. Even though at first glance the familiar could be mistaken for a tall and lanky, albeit oddly dressed, Germanian due to his skin tone, everything else about him—it?—seemed profoundly inhuman. Disregarding the simply unnatural magical transformation it had displayed, which some were already certain was a form of heretical (possibly even Firstborn) magic despite the lack of elven ears. Some said it was proof of a similarly monstrous (or demonic) nature.

Then there were also the familiar's disconcerting eyes. At first glance they appeared to be a uniform shade of white, which as unnerving enough, but a closer inspection revealed irises just a shade different from the rest of the white. However, such a closer inspection was difficult given that, appearances aside, the familiar could clearly see just fine and favored glaring at everything and everyone in a scowl so ferocious that most in the infirmary preferred to pointedly not look in his direction. The only exception had been the strangely intense-looking Mr. Colbert, who had kept a watchful eye on the infirmary in general and on the familiar in particular.

Exacerbating the disquiet had been, well, the quiet. The familiar, despite understanding Albionese, had not spoken a single word. Initially Louise had assumed it to be an angry or suspicious refusal, but after seeing the scar on his throat Louise had understood that he had been made incapable of speech. Upon realizing that, Louise had glanced uncertainly at the injured boy. Had that been his doing, perhaps to bind the human-like familiar to him in some way? Had it been some form of harsh punishment? The apparent cruelty of it had caused her to shudder as she could not imagine a master treating a familiar in such a way, but then she had mentally admonished herself right after. She knew nothing of the full nature of the familiar, his master, or whatever ritual had secured his service. Making hasty assumptions was always a mistake, especially if she used it as an excuse for ill feelings.

At any rate, that inability to speak had made effective communication extremely limited since the familiar could only communicate in hand signs that no one had been able to understand. At one point Mr. Colbert had given the familiar a quill and some parchment in the hope that he knew how to write, and he did. Unfortunately, the script the familiar had written down had been completely unknown. There had been few attempts to communicate after that, and an awkward silence had settled in. It had become even more awkward after the healers had left after they had finished tending to the familiar's master. When Mr. Colbert had finally left himself, satisfied at that the familiar apparently meant no harm so long as his master was taken care of, the awkward silence had turned into a painfully heavy tension.

Nonetheless she had insisted on staying, bearing the stiffness from her nervousness in the presence of the still-scowling humanoid familiar. Duty was duty, and that was that. Although, it had been an enormous relief when the familiar had finally sat upon a corner table and transformed into the peculiar scepter-like weapon. Deprived of the massive looming presence—he was taller than Mr. Colbert when standing—and the fearsome scowl, the familiar was less frightening to be around. Eventually, she also had been reluctantly persuaded to leave when one of the healers strongly insisted that she get dinner and some sleep. _Strongly insisted_, of course, meaning that she had forbidden Louise from staying in the infirmary for the rest of the evening.

The rest of the night had been a hazy blur that Louise still couldn't quite remember, so lost had she been as the thoughts, anxiety, and confusion of the day had finally shattered the resolve the unnerving presence of the strange familiar had already battered. All she really knew was that, in her fugue, she had managed to eat dinner, go to her room, and change into her night clothes before spending the rest of the night getting acquainted with the patterns on her bed's roof.

Now Louise found herself continuing to lie still and do exactly that for a few more minutes before finally forcing herself up stiffly in a fit of discomfited groans and stretching. Even then she looked around blankly for a moment as she sat up, her normally comforting surroundings looking oddly alien. Her eyes fell upon the pile of hay she had prepared for the creature she had expected—hoped—to get as a familiar. Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile. She should have known better; when did she ever get anything she actually wanted to get?

She stood up and moved slowly to the bathroom, reminding herself to tell a servant to clear away the hay and take her clothes for washing. She felt a surge of resentment knowing that some of her classmates had probably already bonded enough with their familiars to instruct them to take their clothes to the academy servants for washing for them.

Louise shook her head to clear her thoughts, pink hair whipping around wildly and becoming even more disheveled as she did so. She needed to concentrate on freshening up and making herself presentable for now. Then it was off to forcing herself to down breakfast, but not after first checking on the infirmary. She had the rest of the day for indulging in worry and self-loathing, after all.

* * *

Fire, as with many natural forces, shared a complicated relationship with mankind. It was a thing that inspired fear, a force of destruction that left charred ash, painful death, and injurious heat in its wake. Indeed, among mages and commoners alike fire was the element most often weaponized in one form or another, either as a tool of war or intimidation. The fact that it crackled, twisted, and flickered even as it stood only accentuated the sense that it was a restless and hungry predator, ready to consume everything in sight given the slightest chance.

However, it was also a thing of life, providing warmth against the cold, light in darkness, protection from predators, and heat for cooking. It also allowed even the magic-deprived commoners to forge and fashion tools from metal, making civilization possible. In this sense its coiling and undulations could even be called beautiful, a near-hypnotic dance set to the song of popping wood and the almost musical pulsations of candlelight.

As such, it was the perfect metaphor for the fickle and varied passions of humanity, or so the fire mage Kirche Augusta Frederica von Anhalt Zerbst liked to think so. Per usual, she strode down the academy unafraid—indeed, proud—to show the light of her passion. The spring in her step and the sway of her hips mimicking the sensuous movements of flame upon a candlewick—at least as she saw it. Out of the corner of her eye, she regarded her quiet Gallian friend who was walking beside her.

In sharp contrast, Tabitha moved in a steady cadence, everything kept under firm control. They seemed an odd pair at first glance, what with Kirche being a tall and vibrant fire mage and Tabitha being a petite and reserved wind mage. Indeed, Kirche had befriended her at first due simply to the fact that they were fellow foreigners in another land. It had later grown into genuine fondness however. Partly due to Kirche's fondness for cute things—and the blue-haired girl was plenty adorable enough—and partly due to what Kirche could see beneath the aloof and taciturn surface. Tabitha's emotions were sealed within so tightly that only a true connoisseur of passion like Kirche could see just how much they roiled and strained beneath the surface, and picking up on them through the subtleness of the girl's motions and expressions fascinated Kirche to no end.

She turned her attention back to those around her. The Academy's hallways burned behind her as she walked past, with male and female alike turning to regard her with faces displaying a myriad of reactions. Kirche smiled in satisfaction. Tristainian passions, for all that they were buried under stuffy notions of self-importance and primly pompous propriety, caught alight as easily as dry tinder on a hot summer's day.

Here and there, as always, were the expected reactions of the girls (and even some of the women) around her. A number blazed in naked envy, no doubt cursing her ample physical assets, which were shapelier than what almost every other woman in the academy had to offer. Others sniffed indignantly, disapproval and wounded propriety seething, sometimes in addition to the aforementioned envy. Here and there were whispers, likely of accusatory terms they were too cowardly or prudish to say out loud, much less to her face. Still others showed admiration, wishing that they had either her figure or her confidence (or both). For these, Kirche had a friendly smile, and even a greeting for those who greeted her first. A few, very few, had an admiration fueled by lust, which Kirche found quite flattering even though most of the girls who actually showed it were more horrified or disquieted at even having such feelings.

Speaking of lust, most of the boys were, expectedly, enflamed by it. Many quite openly and appreciatively, while others attempted to hide it under masks of feigned disinterest or disapproval. She drank it all, allowing their attention to feed the steady glow that was her pride in her own beauty even as she stoked the flames of their juvenile desire further with a small smile here, a sideways glance there, and every once in a while, a wink or a wave.

To a few such gestures were even meant to convey promise, a promise of a cold night they both would do their best to make warm. Like any proper promise, these were not given lightly, and she had never given any more or less than advertised. She took care to avoid promising her warm company to those with the simmering inferno of jealousy or the weak embers of the easily heart-broken—encouraging those would only be painful and troublesome. Neither did she give any boy the full promise of her heart. That was reserved only for one she found truly worthy, a man whose passion burned as brightly and as hotly as her own, and she'd yet to find such a man. Not in her native Germania, and not in Tristain.

In truth, that was why she had found herself in Tristain in the first place. Her parents had seen fit to marry her to an old codger whose passions had cooled years ago, becoming singularly dull in the process. A shame, really. For his age, he was actually quite a handsome man. Of course, she had shown her displeasure at their choice strongly. So strongly, in fact, that her parents had all but banished her to Tristain to cool off and think about what she'd done.

What could she say? A girl as thoroughly passionate as her also had the tendency to be consumed and subsumed by her own feelings, giving her quite the temper. After all, her runic name, the Ardent, referred as much to her triangle-class flame magic as it did to her passion. As such, she had the tendency to burn a bridge or two, something that she regretted sometimes for all her revelry in open emotion.

The redhead sighed as she remembered another bridge she had burned upon her arrival. Kirche recalled when she first set eyes upon Louise. She had found the petite pink-haired girl simply darling, and as mentioned, she was fond of cute things. Then she had discovered how adorable the girl was when flustered and angry, and the rivalry between their houses as well as the girl's troubles with magic had given her ample opportunity to encourage such _unbearably_ delightful reactions. Unfortunately, her passions had yet again gotten the best of her, and she had often let herself become carried away, actually hurting the girl in the process. She honestly regretted that. She never really cared much for the rivalry between their nations and noble houses, except as a vehicle for glorious competition and fond teasing. Earning actual enmity had never been her goal. It didn't help that Kirche had the tendency to quickly fall back on her teasing when nothing else came to mind.

She had wanted to apologize many times, but had never found a way to do so that wouldn't have been met with hostility and suspicion. Louise, lovely Little Lou-Lou, was an extremely passionate girl herself—which was also partly what had drawn Kirche to her. Too bad that and the relentless mockery from all around her had given her a tendency to hold grudges, and the one Kirche had inadvertently encouraged in her so colored their interactions that Kirche knew that most attempts at reconciliation would have been seen through such a lens and thusly dismissed. A vexing problem made all the more so thanks to her responsibility for it.

And then yesterday happened.

Oh, yesterday. Glorious, wondrous, fantastical yesterday.

There had been Louise's explosive and strange summoning, and it truly had been quite _amazing_, as she had sarcastically declared at first. The strange injured boy Little Lou-Lou had summoned—a mage knight, if their professor was right—had been so battered and near dead that Kirche could not help but wonder at the tale behind all of it. What stories could he tell once the healers' ministrations had nursed him back to health? Then there had been the mage knight's scepter-like weapon, which had turned into the strangest familiar Kirche had ever laid eyes on. The fact that said familiar looked human and had skin color reminding her of people from her home region yet apparently could only understand Albionese just added to the mystery, and that wasn't taking into account the utterly unusual transformational magic the familiar had displayed.

The Germanian grinned in anticipation. She loved interesting things after all, and the prospect of solving these mysteries should prove more than adequate in that regard.

Then there was the fact that yesterday's events had unleashed so much raw emotion, and from such surprising or unexpected sources. She remembered the amusement at another apparent failure from the infamous Zero quickly turning to horror when they thought she had accidentally killed the one she'd summoned, coupled with confusion at the fact that she'd summoned a human. There had been the normally milquetoast and absentminded Mr. Colbert springing to action with an unexpected focus and intensity, displaying knowledge and mastery that had belied everyone's usual image of the man. And, of course, there had been her two favorite petite girls, Louise and Tabitha.

It had been quite jarring to see the usually defiant Louise, who had faced every bit of failure and mockery with fierce pride and relentless determination, reduced to tears at the prospect of having unwittingly killed somebody. A shocking display of emotion that had moved Kirche to give her comfort, or it would have had not Tabitha done so first. To see her usually silent and distant Tabitha uncap her reserve just enough to reach out to a hurting classmate, especially one none too fond of either of them, had been a _treat_. Kirche had almost needed to fan herself from the combined adorability of both of them.

It had also thrown Louise into a loop enough to give Kirche her long-awaited opening. Her friendly ribbing to lighten the mood had gratifyingly stayed the Tristanian's ingrained hostility at her presence through sheer confusion, and the added turmoil of later events had driven it to the wayside. This meant that, if she played her cards right, she could keep it there, slowly encourage the friendly rivalry that she had wanted, and put an end to the rut of bad blood between the two of them.

Smiling wider now, Kirche was almost walking on air. She moved toward the infirmary, knowing that Louise would likely check up on the strange pair she had summoned before going for breakfast. Tabitha, still keeping her own counsel, kept pace with her. Flame, Kirche's fire salamander familiar, trailed behind them, flaming tail swinging merrily behind it in a reflection of his master's mood.

* * *

In another part of the academy, between the imposingly tall bookshelves of a restricted library section known as Fenrir's Library, another fire mage was less than sanguine. Jean Colbert, dedicated professor of the Tristain Academy of Magic for twenty years, rubbed his eyes tiredly. Like Louise, the peculiar climax of yesterday's summoning ritual had caused him to spend his night sleeplessly. Unlike her, it was because he had spent the night combing through obscure tome after obscure tome. It hadn't been the first time he had spent an all-nighter on a task, although he hadn't done so with this kind of urgency since his days in military service.

Given the seemingly military nature of young Ms. Vallière's summoning, part of him found that rather appropriate. Another part complained about getting some sleep, but it had been duly ignored. Whether as a military man or as a teacher, when Jean Colbert the Flame Snake became focused on something, it had his undivided, and sometimes obsessive, attention. It's what had made him good at both jobs—

Suddenly, he froze. He could've sworn that he'd heard something. He set down his book and turned his neck slowly, as if working out a tired kink in his neck. As he did so, he peeled his eyes and ears and took the opportunity to look carefully around the library. He saw and heard nothing.

Maybe.

_You're losing your edge and hearing things, old man,_ he mentally scolded himself with a rueful smile.

This was an academy, after all, not a battlefield. What business could anyone have sneaking up on the doddering, absent-minded professor? Perhaps Ms. Vallière's unusual summoning had just triggered several old habits he'd rather have left long buried. He frowned as he recalled the near-dead boy who had been summoned. The young warrior had clearly been fresh from a nasty fight of some sort, especially given the reaction of his familiar. Seeing all those blood and injuries had thrown him right back into the worst of his experiences even as he had moved to administer medical aid. He'd seen people that young dying all too many times, whether at his hands or at the hands of the enemy. He could recall being that young himself, struggling to stay alive and keep his comrades alive.

Then there were all the unknowns about the boy and his familiar, and they were making him edgy. One of the hard lessons he'd learned during his military service was that lack of information was dangerous, even deadly. He hadn't been lying when he'd told young Ms. Zerbst that he loved to learn. After all, the more he knew the more he had to use, and the more he had to draw on the better prepared and equipped he was. As such, it troubled him to no end that, after literally hours or reading and searching, he still had no real idea on who or what Ms. Vallière had inadvertently summoned.

Just where was the boy from? His familiar understood Albionese, but that didn't necessarily say that much about him. Why had he been that injured? Who had been trying to kill him? Why had they been trying to kill him? And most importantly, what exactly could the familiar do combat-wise? Yes, with its—his?—master under their care, it was behaving well enough. That didn't meant it couldn't just decide to change its mind at any moment the same way it could instantaneously change shape. The fact that one of said shapes bore aspects of muskets and cannons did not bode well. Even with the knowledge that Sir Osmond was definitely keeping an eye on both the familiar and his unconscious master with a Mirror of Farsight, he still hadn't felt comfortable leaving them there to their own devices.

Especially with the strange results he had gotten when he had casted the Detect Magic spell on them yesterday. He'd dodged Tabitha's question about the results by being intentionally vague, and he'd taken the welcome interruption of the healers' arrival as an opportunity to drop the matter. However, it still niggled in the back of his mind. Contrary to what he'd told the Gallian student, the magical reading had not been weak but rather strong, and from both the master and the familiar. It had also felt profoundly . . . _different_ in some way he couldn't quite put his finger on. He'd faced a variety of the human-looking monsters of Halkeginia before, and even their magic had never felt like what he had sensed yesterday. He also remembered the eerie chill that had run up his spine, and every so often he swore that he could still feel it every time something reminded him of the two.

All in all, it had made him extremely antsy.

Shaking his head, he sat back down and continued to pore on, forcing himself to focus and stay awake through mind-numbing strings of obscure and dry academia on the history of Halkeginia and the Founder Brimir, putting aside his reservations for now. Finishing yet another book, he stifled a yawn as he slammed it shut and placed it atop an ever-growing pile. Standing up tiredly, he cast a levitation spell and flew up to the top of yet another tall shelf, scanning the titles for books pertinent to his search. Grabbing a few, he floated to the ground to immediately begin reading through the new pile, knowing that indulging in a pause would just tempt him to take a "short" rest right then and there.

He passed his weary eyes over the abstract of the first book he picked up. They widened. The book was a very old and well-worn text on familiars, which included a description of the familiars of the Holy Founder. After making sure that the reinforcement spell on the book hadn't degraded—it just wouldn't do to accidentally ruin such old and valuable tomes due to carelessness—he leafed through the pages eagerly. A particular paragraph caught his eye, and as he read on they widened yet again.

"Ah!" he gasped in surprise and pleasure as he hurriedly and excitedly stood up from the floor with the book in arm.

He ran out of the library with it, ignoring the on-duty librarian's annoyed protest about properly checking out the tome first. He all but barreled down the hall, nearly knocking over several people on the way.

He needed to see the headmaster at once.

* * *

As the professor ran out of the restricted section, a pair of eyes followed him from a small gap between one of the massive bookshelves and the wall. When his footfalls finally faded into the distance, a green-hiared female figure slowly and cautiously made her way out of the gap. She let out a breath that she had been holding for quite some time. Colbert had been more alert than she had expected despite the intense focus she had seen him give the books he had been leafing through. More than once he seemed to have reacted to even the slightest of her shifts even though she had cast a Spell of Tranquility upon herself to muffle the sound of her movements, and she was lucky that he hadn't chosen to investigate any closer.

She supposed that she shouldn't be so surprised. In all of her time as Ms. Longueville, the headmaster's secretary, she had seen that he confided in Colbert the most, and anyone with the personal ear of Sir Osmond himself was worth paying attention to. After all, for all that the headmaster acted the doddering and perverted old fool, he was entrusted with the nation's premier academy and the vault of special magical artifacts and national treasures it housed—a position that had him answer directly to the Royal Court of Tristain. It wasn't a stretch to believe that his confidant in the academy was likewise more than the absent-minded and milquetoast professor that he appeared to be, possibly even handpicked for the job by the Court itself.

The so-called Ms. Longueville allowed herself a smile of satisfaction as she dusted herself off for a bit and tried to work out the stiffness that had set in over the hours she'd been hiding and observing. Whatever his hidden skills, he hadn't quite been good enough to catch her spying on him.

She moved to the pile of books the professor had haphazardly left is his haste. After a quick look and listen around to make sure no one else was nearby, she adjusted her glasses and examined the books before her, looking for indications on which pages and passages the professor had been looking at. He had been looking up books on familiars and their summoning, no doubt due to the . . . unique familiar one of the second-year students had summoned yesterday.

A frown creased her forehead as she finished her quick perusal. None of the books really told her anything that she couldn't see for herself.

_I wasted last night for this?_ she groused mentally, with the mystery gnawing away at the back of her mind. She shook her head to clear away the disappointment and the tiredness.

Curiosity had taken hold of her, and when it did it had a hard time letting go. She had seen how Osmond had reacted upon receiving news of an emergency during the summoning ceremony. The mask of a lecherous old fool had all but evaporated when he had used the Mirror of Farsight to investigate, and he had stayed uncharacteristically silent and intent throughout the drama. More tellingly, she could've sworn that she had seen recognition in the old man's eyes, but she couldn't be sure. One could not help but wonder at what could elicit such a reaction, especially given how she had seen Colbert act as well.

She wanted—_needed_—to know what all the fuss was all about¬. What she had seen was already tantalizing enough, but they just raised more and more questions. Just _what_ exactly was that familiar? How did that transformation magic it had used work? Was it some kind of previously-unknown type of Firstborn? Was it even really alive, or merely some sort of magical construct or artifact or—

_Stop._

She shook her head again, this time to forcefully stop her current line of thinking from taking hold of her mind further.

No, she should know better than to let her curiosity get the better of her. Yes, what had happed yesterday was something she had never seen in all her travels, but ultimately it wasn't her primary concern. She hadn't come here for novel experiences—she had a job to do: get in, break into the vault, and steal the Staff of Destruction. Then off to sell it to the highest bidder and get the money to Tiffa and the kids. Anything else was a distraction, and distractions were dangerous.

Nodding to herself, she drew back from the books and turned to exit the restricted section, taking care so that no one saw her do so. She walked calmly to the librarian's desk and grabbed the books that had been lent from the headmaster's office for viewing by the third-year class—the perfect pretext for her presence in the library.

Still, as she stood waiting for the librarian to fetch the books, her mind couldn't help but drift back to the strange familiar and the reaction of Osmond and Colbert. After all, she didn't get where she was by ignoring information, and besides, sometimes cautious curiosity could lead to opportunities. And whether this curiosity would or would not, this was still a new variable to take into account. Anything could be useful, after all, provided you recognized how to use it and what it was worth. Similarly, anything ignored could also be a danger, and paying attention was paramount for caution.

Moreover, she still had other lines of inquiry. She had been about to consult that very line anyway regarding the protective wards around the vault, so she might as well find out just how much it knew.

* * *

Siesta hummed quietly as she carried a tray of food toward the infirmary section, quite pleased with herself. She had not only gotten out of her usual early morning task of setting up the dining hall for the academy students and teachers' breakfast—which was quite boring since she had to restrain her work speed around the other servants—but she had also managed to get assigned to deliver food to one of the academy's new guests. It had all been a matter of just happening to pass by the kitchen once the meal had been prepared.

_Just happening, _she thought smugly.

Too bad she hadn't quite been in the right place to yesterday to be assigned to bring the dinner of the academy's guest, but there was no use worrying over opportunities lost. Besides, given all the chaos yesterday she was sure she would have just gotten shooed out of the infirmary by the healers if she had gotten that assignment anyway. At least now that everything had calmed down somewhat there was a chance that she could linger in the infirmary longer.

Like everyone else who had witnessed or heard of yesterday's events—in other words, everyone in the academy by now; interesting gossip spread like wildfire after all—she was curious about the pair the pink-haired noble girl had summoned yesterday. Indeed, it had had the makings of a good mystery in her book: a girl chancing upon (as much one could call an accidental summoning that) a mysterious injured individual and a silent, even more mysterious figure with an oddness about him? She could see the novellas already. That the odd familiar in the pair possessed a power that mystified everyone had only whetted everyone's curiosity and fueled more gossip.

Unlike everyone else, however, she had a pretty good idea of exactly what that mystifying power was. She smiled smugly, enjoying the sensation of possessing knowledge she was sure no else around her was privy to. She was sure that was how the nobles felt about the vaunted magic that held them above commoners (many times arrogantly so), and having something not even they possessed or could recognize for all their power was immensely satisfying even if she could never have the satisfaction of throwing it in their faces.

After all, the nobility held their power jealously, and great-grandfather had beaten into them (sometimes literally) the need to keep the legacy from his world that he had bequeathed to them an absolute secret. The nobles would only see it in their terms, and would definitely find it a threat. Anything that threated the nobility and the Church could be labeled heretical and purged with fervor, and at times they didn't even bother with the pious formalities. Especially if the so-called heresy had no real way of protecting itself.

Her great-grandfather may have taught the clan to defend themselves—and they had assumed his lessons faithfully—but they stood no chance in Hel of standing up to the nobility and the Church. Siesta's expression took a savage glint. They could make it costly—very, very costly—for anyone who tried to destroy her clan, yet in the end they were but one small clan, and not all of them truly fighters.

So as satisfying as that secret was, its necessity also made it rather lonely. Especially here in the academy where she had no other clan members she could confide in. But if what she had witnessed yesterday was what she thought it was . . .

Her grip on the tray tightened in anticipation, and she had to will herself not to break out at a full run in full view of everyone else. It just wouldn't do to have a common academy maid be seen running at a speed most people would have thought beyond commoners, or even nobles. Too many questions would be asked.

Still, she was sorely tempted as she stepped into a visibly unoccupied hallway. Appearances, however, were always deceiving. As the young maid peeled her ears, she caught the almost imperceptible sounds of distant footsteps, movements, and conversations. She could tell there were people within many of the rooms in the seemingly silent hallway, and there was a pair of footsteps approaching the intersection four doors in front of her. From the cadence of the steps and the weight behind the footfalls, she could tell that it was very likely a somewhat large man. Definitely nobility; no commoner would walk with such a confident-sounding gait. Not in a place so full of nobles.

Siesta watched the intersection passively. The man should come to view right about . . .

She froze. It was _him_. There was no mistaking that hair and moustache coiffed and shined with expensive fragrant oils.

With a speed and agility that would have shamed professional circus acrobats, the maid leaped into the wall on her right, sprang from it to a higher spot on the opposite wall, and bounded toward a section in the ceiling where beam met column. The silverware and china on the tray clattered as she did. Siesta silently cursed herself for her carelessness. It had not been as loud as it should have been, but it was still loud enough to be heard.

Off the top cover of a polished brass lamp set into the wall, Siesta saw the distorted refection of the noble looking around for the source of the sound. She held her breath when she saw the man looking up, hoping beyond hope that the support beam was massive enough to hide her from this angle.

She was glad that she had had the presence of mind to position herself in such a way that the bulk of her skirt was bundled between her legs and the ceiling, preventing it from hanging down visibly. It did make her hold on the corner even more tenuous, though, since she couldn't brace herself against the wall as fully. It was a problematic enough position without having to use one arm to carry the food tray, which seemed to get heavier and heavier by the moment. She struggled mightily to keep that arm steady, knowing that an inopportune clatter would give her away right now.

She saw the noble's reflection pause, and she went cold. Had he seen her?

_Oh, Founder, please no . . ._

It was not that the man was a fearful monster to avoid at all costs. Lord Mott was merely the local palace messenger—in fact, his estate was so close that it was a little over an hour on foot given an average pace—and liked well enough within the surrounding area, for all his transparent pretentions at charm. It was just that the man had a certain reputation for collecting commoner women who caught his eye into his . . . _personal service_. Granted, the man was known for taking reasonably good care of said women. And while he would never really be called handsome beyond flattery, he also wasn't that objectionable to look at in all honesty. She had even heard some of her fellow maids actually hope that they'd catch his attention whenever he came to the academy or when they saw him around town.

Siesta would rather avoid him like a plague carrier. Fantasizing about seducing nobles on her terms was one thing, actually being, well, _bought_ to sleep with one just because she caught his eye? Not for all the gold in Tristain, no matter how nice people said he was.

Of course, if he saw her now, the prospect of becoming a "personal" servant was just one worry next to how she'd explain her ability to cling to the ceiling in the first place. Somehow, she just couldn't see anyone believing that she just happened to know acrobatics. And even if anyone did, she'd become known for being capable of doing something like this, and that kind of attention was to be avoided at all costs.

She shifted the tray in her arm a bit to make it easier to throw. If worse came to worst, she could always knock him out and escape from the academy to find new employment elsewhere—far, _far_ away.

To her relief, Lord Mott had started moving again, apparently thinking that he was just hearing things. Unfortunately, he started moving in her direction. She knew that given her awkward position that despite her best efforts the food tray would make a racket when she moved down, so she would have to wait until he passed by and rounded another corner before she could safely descend. Predictably, the palace messenger moved in a leisurely place. Siesta was sorely tempted to throw the tray at him anyway.

Finally—_finally_—Mott left the hallway. Siesta let out the breath she had been holding the whole time in immense relief and prepared to jump down.

At that moment, a door in the hallway opened, then another.

And another.

And _another_.

Students began to exit their dorm rooms, exchanging greetings as they did so. Some—Hel take them—paused to indulge in idle conversation.

Siesta wanted to cry.

* * *

Yet again Eyes Javit found himself sitting atop a now-very-familiar corner table. He could have sworn that his neck muscles squeaked like an unoiled hinge in protest as he turned his head like a turret, alternately keeping a close watch on the entire room and the still out-of-it form of his grievously injured partner. If he was honest with himself, it was about as much due to a need to just do _something_ as a desire to keep vigilant watch over his partner. It wasn't like there was really anything else to do other than fret and stew in a mix of extreme foreboding marinated in a good amount of awkwardness. Mostly due to the fact that a part of his mind kept annoyingly bringing up that he was essentially just watching Hiraga while he slept, because apparently bringing a sense of creepiness into all this was warranted.

He looked at the tray of food on the table, and his stomach rumbled again. However, he made no move toward it. Last night he had been too worried and suspicious to eat, and he hadn't touched the food a servant had brought in. Now, hours later, he still couldn't quite bring himself to eat it, even though he knew that he was probably just being overly paranoid. Still, the off chance that they might have drugged or poisoned the food kept gnawing at the back of his mind even though the rest of his mind protested that it wouldn't really make sense for his "hosts" to do so given all they'd done so far.

Almost unconsciously, he transformed into his weapon form and clattered loudly onto the top of the table. He twitched in his RPG-7 form several times until he was satisfactorily aimed in a way that allowed him to cover most of the room and keep an eye on Hiraga. He had done this so many times since yesterday that it had become something of a comforting ritual to him, however slight that comfort was. At least being a rocket launcher was less creepy when viewed from the outside than someone staring at someone unconscious on the bed.

And truth be told, for all the limitations of his weapon form, it still made him feel less vulnerable. Mostly because he actually could fire off at least one shot in this form, and it was made of steel and hard wood instead of squishy, bleedy flesh. In this form he was also hard for others to read emotionally due to the lack of traitorous body language. It also allowed him to ignore his hunger better. That made it easier to think, and he had had plenty of time to do so over everything that had happened yesterday and to try to come up with a plan, or at least an explanation or two. Or ten.

Hiraga and he somehow ending up in a place full of what for all the world seemed like Witches, except not quite exactly, had been confusing enough. The males among them confused him more since it was common knowledge that Witches were female. He'd heard of Sorcerers, which the Witches all but venerated, but they were supposed to be extremely rare. Furthermore, thinking about that possibility was even _worse_. Sure, they weren't known for falling into the Sway of Magic and one of them had even been one of Lord Death's trusted eight in the distant past, but there were also terrifyingly powerful and could be, at best, amoral. Remembering the number of males yesterday, that was terrifying to think about.

Then again, that would explain Hiraga getting mistaken for some big-shot by the locals and him for a familiar. (He still wasn't sure whether to be insulted at that or not.) Maybe, for some reason, they thought Hiraga was a Sorcerer. Perhaps they had been trying to summon one and the streams had gotten crossed somehow, causing him and Hiraga to end up here instead. That was pretty much just a wild assumption (read, desperate hope) on his part, but at least that possibility he might be able to use to try and get out of this reasonably intact and healthy.

The prospect of Sorcerers working with Witches, though, had been only been slightly more disturbing compared to that featureless . . . _thing_ that had taken the place of the sun. The night had only worsened the unnaturalness of it all when the moon had also been replaced by not one but _two_ faceless orbs as well. Although, even as that terrified him further, it had also given him his first real clue.

He was either in some sort of illusory state or in another plane of existence—maybe even some other world. Those were the only explanations that made any sort of sense, and it's not like he hadn't seen stuff like it before. Lord Death himself had Death's Room, a self-contained dimension where he stayed most of the time. Hell, he and Hiraga had been there a few times before. It wasn't a stretch to think that this clearly unnatural place was something like that, except on a different scale.

Question was, why were they here, and how had they ended up here in the first place? If this was some kind of elaborate illusion to gain his trust or to lull him into a false sense of security, then why such blatant inconsistencies like strangely acting Witches and unusual celestial bodies? Wouldn't that just make him even more suspicious? Unless the point was to keep him off-balance make him think that he had been displaced into another world so as to make him rely on the locals, worming some trust out of him in the process.

But then, that just made it more and more elaborate. He just couldn't see any reason for Witches and Sorcerers—if these guys were indeed those—to go through all that trouble just to get their hands on him and Hiraga, especially since the more elaborate a plan was the more likely it'd fail. Besides, if they were ensnared enough to be drawn into something this elaborate, then they were already caught. If they were already caught, then why put them in such an illusion in the first place? They could do anything to them at their leisure, and the sadistic bitches and bastards wouldn't need to soften _anything_ up with illusions. Hell, they'd likely want to hear both his and Hiraga's drawn-out and tortured screams just to satisfy their inherent sadism.

Mentally, he shuddered at those possibilities. Well, at least it was some comfort to know that, if this was indeed an illusion, then there was some reason or another that necessitated it instead of torture and death. _Hoo-fucking-ray,_ he thought bitterly.

On the other hand, if this was some alternate world instead of an illusion, then . . . he wasn't quite sure what to think of that either. Sure, it was far more attractive an idea than that of some Sorcerers and Witches playing mind games with them, but . . . well, _but_. He still didn't trust them. The local "mages," as he had heard them refer to themselves, had also been obliging enough to patch up the seriously messed-up Hiraga. But their reasons for doing so just seemed all too convenient to take at face value.

From what he had learned from the people of the so-called Tristain Academy of Magic, he and Hiraga had supposedly been accidentally summoned during a ceremony for summoning familiars. That was a weak cover story if he ever heard one. "Accidentally" summoned just at the moment Hiraga needed help the most? And Hiraga just happened to be qualified for special treatment due to being "mistaken" for a local "noble" somehow? And the pink-haired girl who allegedly summoned them just happened to take full responsibility just like that, feeling so obligated that she had insisted on staying with them for most of yesterday?

Yeah, he just wasn't buying it.

At that line of thought, he found himself grimacing. He was bad enough with people on regular terms—as regular as being a Demon Weapon allowed him to be, anyway—and these "people" just reminded him way too much of his own world's magic users to even think about being comfortable around them.

More to the point, Cotton Candy was also a girl. A _pretty_ girl that appeared to be around his age. That made her even more dangerous in his book, so having her around just made the ordeal of having to watch as he trusted Hiraga's health to Witch-like healers even more torturous. In fact, it had been his discomfort at her presence yesterday that had caused him to retreat to the refuge of transformation the first time.

It wasn't like he had any particular reason to dislike girls in general. Being around them was tolerable enough when things made it so that he wasn't giving them that much attention. When he was paying them some sort of attention other than what he considered strictly necessary, however, that stupid, hormone-addled animal part of his brain got distracted and made the rest of said brain awkward and useless. Despite knowing objectively that it was just his hormones and instincts making him super aware and self-conscious even if they likely weren't paying attention of him, he just couldn't stop himself from being all stiff, stupid, and shy around them.

He just _hated_ anything that prevented him from thinking clearly. It made his usually reliable paranoia less effective.

Casting his glance at his still unconscious form of his Meister, he sighed mentally. _Dammit, Hiraga. You should be here, and I should be the one unconscious. You'd probably love all this attention and all of these girls. You always grouse about wanting a girlfriend anyway._

Then again, knowing Hiraga, he'd also be a lot more gullible than he was. He was too open and trusting, and that particular vice he'd trust a lot less than the company girls making him nervous. And while Hiraga wasn't discomfited around them, he could still be distracted in a completely different way. Bastard could be something of a pervert, and if anything being around girls made him stupid. Sure, he'd never be the kind of guy most people would call smart, but the guy was reliable enough in a fight—as much as he hated to admit it. If distracted, however . . .

He would've sighed in human form, recalling the fiascos that had resulted whenever Hiraga had tried to impress girls back in the DWMA. That poor, poor training range . . .

At that thought a pang of guilt hit him, almost causing him physical pain. He cast his glance on the bed again, and the bandages and bruises seemed clearer to him than it had before. That made him feel even worse. Whatever his faults, his partner was hurt and had almost died, and part of it thanks to his own limitations as a Demon Weapon. And here he was basically insulting the guy in his mind. _Dammit_, he thought again. He didn't even really like the guy, and now he felt like an absolute ass for thinking ill of him. How was that fair?

Frustrated, he transformed back into his human form for the umpteenth time that day just so he could let out an exasperated sigh. All of this was just making his ever-accumulating discomfort that much worse, a state of mind not improved by lack of sleep. Sure, he had rested in weapon form last night, but always fitfully and never consistently. He just needed to step back from all of this and get some kind of relaxation in, or at least another quick nap before the faceless sun rose any higher. He needed to keep his mind reasonably rested and sharp if he was to think his way through all this.

Of course, after all that thinking he just wasn't feeling that sleepy. He needed to tire himself out a bit before he could even think about closing his eyes. So Eyes stood and began to pace.

He was still pacing when the room's doorknob started to rattle. Startled, Eyes jumped, searching frantically for the table he'd claimed as his perch. As luck would have it, his pacing had taken him too far away to jump on it without the risk of breaking it. Not for the first time he wished that he could talk. A good, loud expletive would be just what the doctor ordered right about now.

Eyes looked apprehensively at the door, thinking that he probably made a pretty good impression of a cataract-afflicted deer in the headlights.

* * *

The headmaster's office was located in the topmost section of the academy's central tower. As such, Sir Osmond had gotten quite used to the sight of people coming to his office out of breath. It was at times quite amusing, and an old man cherished what amusements he could find wherever he found it. And when aesthetically pleasing women came into his office panting rather fetchingly, well, that was just a welcome bonus. That had actually been part of the reason he had sent his new secretary, the comely Ms. Longueville, on quite a few errands, in fact.

Speaking of whom, she was running somewhat late today. The green-haired woman usually showed up early to his office, a punctuality and dutifulness he fully appreciated because it allowed him more time to appreciate her presence, and also because she was quite handy at keeping things around his office in order, a task he usually found somewhat tedious. Then again, being late meant that she would likely come into his office in something of a rush, and he looked forward to the slight flush that appeared on her face whenever she exerted herself. He smiled and stroked his beard expectantly. It was certainly something to eagerly anticipate after several unbearably dull hours of keeping an eye on their mysterious guests via the Mirror of Farsight.

At the muffled sound of footsteps rapidly approaching from the hallway, Osmond leaned forward to stare intently. Suddenly, it slammed open, but instead of Ms. Longueville a balding middle-aged man all but stumbled into the room in his haste.

"Old Osmond!" Colbert panted, nowhere near as pleasantly as Ms. Longueville would have.

"Oh, it's only you. Good morning, Mister, ah . . ." Osmond greeted, disappointment plain on his voice. "I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

The professor adjusted his glasses in irritation.

"I have important information, Sir Osmond," Colbert continued, deliberately ignoring Osmond "forgetting" his name.

The younger professor wasn't in the mood for their little game this morning. Shame.

"Ah, Jean, you're no fun. You're going to get old very quickly like that," the headmaster chided. "And there's no such distinction between important or unimportant information. I'm sure every little tidbit is important to somebody out there."

"Please take a look at this, sir." The academy instructor placed the book he was bringing along atop the headmaster's desk.

At that Osmond's familiar Mótsognir, a white mouse, scuttled over to the book and crawled on top of it. The mouse's whiskers twitched as he peered at the title, looking it over intently. After a moment, the familiar abruptly clambered off the tome and ran toward his master, who allowed him to crawl up an arm and move to his neck. Osmond cocked his head to the side theatrically, allowing Mótsognir to "whisper" into his ear.

"What's that, my cute little Mótsognir? _The Familiars of the Founder Brimir_, you say? Such an old, dry book. Don't you think that if certain professors had time to spend all night looking at old literature, they could think up some better ways of collecting school fees from those freeloading nobles?"

The mouse let out squeak of agreement.

"What could possibly be so important and interesting in such a dusty old book?" he continued, nodding in exaggerated sagacity.

Colbert let out a patient sigh, and Osmond smiled knowing that the man knew that he was just having some fun at his expense. After all, when he was determined to dither around like this then there really was little anyone could do to rush him short of something life-threatening—and sometimes even that wasn't a guarantee. His subordinate opened the book to a page that had been previously marked and pushed it toward him.

"Please read this section, Sir Osmond."

This time, Osmond let out his own rather loud and drawn-out sigh, like a belligerent youth forced to do something he didn't want to by an authority figure. He lazily levitated the book with overwrought reluctance and passed his eyes lazily over the passages Colbert had indicated, with his head propped up by one of his arms to indicate boredom.

About a paragraph in, however, the aging headmaster's demeanor suddenly changed. He suddenly sat upright, and his lazy eyes abruptly sharpened. He leaned forward attentively as he continued reading. Anyone else watching him would have sworn that the lethargic, bratty old man that had been sitting behind the table a moment ago had been a completely different individual.

Reaching the end of the section, Osmond read it again to make sure he hadn't missed anything while he had been playing at disinterest. After a moment, he lay the book down and stared blankly in front of him in a thoughtful silence that lasted for a good long while as Colbert waited patiently.

"Are you sure about this, Jean?" he finally asked.

"No, I'm not," the professor admitted right away, and despite himself Osmond smiled. That was one of the reasons Jean Colbert was his trusted second: the man was always on the level with him. "I mean, the summoning ritual was never finished, so I can't really be sure without the runes. However . . ."

Colbert trailed off and glanced toward the Mirror of Farsight. Osmond followed his eyes and was just in time to see the—well, perhaps _familiar_ might not be the correct term after all—transform into his strangely dressed human shape and begin pacing, an activity he had repeated over the past few hours. Absently, Osmond began petting his own familiar, who let out a pleased squeak of _chu_ in response.

"'While exact descriptions of the familiar's of the Holy Founder have unfortunately been lost to the sands of time,'" Osmond quoted, "'satisfactorily consistent general descriptions of each have persisted in the historical record.'"

"Consider, Sir Osmond," the bespectacled mage interjected, gesturing to the image of the bedridden boy and his still-pacing companion in the mirror. "The Gandálfr is generally described as the Founder's protector among his familiars—an unparalleled weapons master capable of wielding all manner of weaponry. Is it not reasonable to conclude that to actually _wield_ a weapon one has to be human, or at least humanoid?"

"Any kind of weapon . . ." Osmond stroked his beard thoughtfully, looking intently at the pacing figure it was showing.

He remembered the strange child's other form. The dimensions and placement of the handles and trigger suggested that in that for the weapon would be carried on the shoulder. A _tube-shaped_ weapon carried on the _shoulder_? Could it be? True, the shape was rather different, and there was that thing in front of the tube that was apparently the familiar's head. Still . . .

"Hm. A familiar with a familiar of his own?"

"Well, we've been operating on the assumption that that, um, boy is the other boy's own familiar. Not an unreasonable conclusion, despite the curious nature of the so-called familiar in question. But ultimately it's just that: our own assumption. Seeing how that . . . individual transforms, Headmaster, perhaps he is more of _a manner of weaponry_."

"Jean, do you realize exactly what you're saying?"

"I'm merely voicing a possibility given what we've seen, sir."

To that, Osmond gave a snort. "After all these years of frank speech, you're going start waffling on me now, Jean? A mere 'suggestion' whose implication is singularly explicit is not, in fact, a suggestion."

The only response was silence.

"Bah, more waffling! I honestly expected better of you, Colby."

"It's just that, well, the implications of a Gandálfr being summoned after all this time . . ."

This declaration was met with a raised eyebrow. "Need I remind you that, as you said, this is nothing but conjecture at this point. He doesn't even have runes yet, provided we'll even allow young Ms. Vallière to consummate the ritual. Try not to count the chickens before they hatch, dear boy."

"Hard not to incubate the idea at least, Headmaster," the professor pointed out in a reasonable tone.

"Do remember that there are foxes all around us, and a few even own the coop." _If you're going to beat the idiom to death, boy, then I may as well put it out of its misery,_ Osmond thought. "The Palace and the Church would throw an absolute fit at rumors of a possible new Void mage among us, and you should know more than most exactly what such a 'fit' could entail."

At this, Colbert fell silent again with a thoughtful and troubled look on his face. Osmond lit his pipe as he waited for the man to come to some sort of decision.

There was a knock on the door before that could happen.

"Do come in," he said loudly.

He looked at the door eagerly, hoping for the much welcome respite of his green-haired secretary's pretty bespectacled face.

For the second time that morning, he was disappointed.

Before the door could fully open, Osmond undid the scrying spell on the Mirror of Farsight. There were certain things certain eyes were not meant to see.

* * *

If Kirche was undoubtedly fire, then the nearly ever-present girl by her side was surely ice. Where Kirche's flamboyant movements spoke of barely contained energy, Tabitha's spoke of careful control and measurement. Where Kirche was tall, leggy, and well-endowed, Tabitha was petite in every way. Where the former's long, wild red hair whipped this way and that like a fiery tail, the latter's short blue bob stuck close to her head, barely moving at each step. Where one's eyes sparkled with playful mischief, the other's peered cooly from behind a pair of glasses, and sometimes a book. Where the Germanian was loud and talkative, the Gallian was quiet and taciturn.

As such, it was often a mystery to others how they were apparently friends.

Kirche was familiar enough with the brooding Tabitha to not only pester her for favors but also to regularly go into her room unimpeded. (Whereas the former normally invited all sorts people, mostly boys, to her room instead, a number thought unkindly.) Not that anyone would actually ask either one on why they were that close anyway. Kirche was known to have a nasty temper when angered in addition to being a skilled fire mage, and Tabitha was no less intimidating. In fact, the latter was even more so since she was harder to read and had a sizeable dragon for a familiar, one she had summoned long before the recent summoning ritual and at a much earlier age than the rest of the students. Clearly not a girl to be trifled with, small stature be damned.

Tabitha preferred it that way. It kept her classmates at a distance, and in distance was safety and control. Establish the distance, and one defined the parameters of the interaction. It kept people off balance, forcing them to react in often predictable behavior patterns, and predictability allowed preparation.

She hadn't been prepared then, and it had cost her everything. She would never make that mistake again.

Sometimes, though, even being prepared just wasn't enough.

_"Somehow, I think you saw this coming. You're pretty sharp. I like that."_

_There was no response._

_"Then again, it's not that hard to figure out. 'Friends close, enemies closer' and all that. And Her Highness has never been that fond of you."_

Her facial muscles twitched imperceptibly as an unwelcome old memory rose from the depths of her thoughts. That voice . . . _that_ girl. After all these years of trying to forget, it remained immediately recognizable.

That girl had not been her friend; at best, she'd been a confidant. That had been close enough, more than enough. An abject lesson in the dangers of letting anyone too close.

Yet she had allowed herself to make the same mistake again.

Her eyes slid over to the Germanian girl. Ever since Kirche had approached her the first time they'd met, Tabitha's usual paradigm of defensive distance had gone right out the window. The taller girl had neither been dissuaded nor intimidated whenever Tabitha was short and curt with her, and the blue-haired girl had initially found that irritating to the extreme. Kirche's active pursuit of her friendship had put her in the position of reacting to another person's actions instead of that person reacting to her, and that made it seem like the taller girl was the one in control. That had made her angry and suspicious enough to suspect that Kirche had somehow been sent after her to try and keep her off-balance, perhaps in preparation for assassinating her. It wouldn't have been the first time.

It had been a long, long while before she had allowed herself to consider that the girl's always enthusiastic attempts might actually have been sincere, and . . . well, she had honestly had no idea what to make of that. She hadn't had anyone that close since . . . _since_. There was Sylphid, of course, but their bond had been forged rather roughly and unconventionally. And no one had approached her for friendship as honestly at this before. She just really had no clue what she was supposed to do about that. She had let her suspicions continue after that mostly because they were comforting and familiar.

And when she had finally, tentatively, given in and allowed Kirche to befriend her, it had actually been, well, mostly awkward. Very, very awkward. It wasn't until she had gotten used to Kirche's quirks that the awkwardness had faded, and they had settled into the safe pattern of predictability and control that she preferred. It had only come at the cost of comfortable distance, and she still wasn't quite sure how to feel about it after all this time. She had managed to at least define some distance (and Kirche wasn't really the prying type, not on things that mattered) that made the friendship easier to swallow, but even then it was more up to an elbow's length than an arm's length.

Additionally, if she was honest to herself, it was nice sometimes to just be another young woman with a friend. To just listen to her ramble about things of ultimately little consequence. To watch her get into squabbles over the pettiest of things. To just see her indulge in the carefree brazenness people often associated with youth.

Within those moments she could just watch her friend and forget about anything else . . . no, she could never forget. As long as she lived, no matter what happened, she would never, ever forget. But at least she could pretend to, sometimes. As annoying as she could sometimes be, Kirche was a good enough person, and she'd come to welcome her company. She'd never confide in her, true, but she had never really needed to. It was also the closest thing to familial closeness she'd felt in a long time.

Perhaps it was because she was open in every way, and almost always completely honest about herself and everyone else, not to mention a horrible liar when you knew what to look for. At the same time, Kirche had never really pestered her about her own secrets, despite the former's natural curiosity and constant pestering about anything else. Almost refreshing in the world of scheming, deceit, and treachery that people called nobility. Trustworthy, even. Maybe someday she would allow herself to give just that to Kirche.

Maybe.

She noted how her friend was all but shaking herself to pieces in excitement, allowing herself the comfort of that familiar behavior. Flame's fire-tipped tail swung wildly to either side in agreement, so Tabitha was careful to position herself away from it. Frankly, she was always reminded of opium addicts about to receive another batch of their poison of choice. Not really that hyperbolic a comparison considering Kirche's addiction to novelty and her peculiar fixation with the temperamental Vallière. Yesterday's events must have left her all but orgasmic. Tabitha knew that the taller girl wouldn't have thought than an unfair comparison either. As with everything else she was quite open and proud about her addiction to anything remotely orgasmic as well.

Truth be told, had her sense of restraint not been so deeply seared into her personality she would have been chomping at the bit as well. Unlike Kirche, however, her interest had been piqued for certain other reasons.

Seeing that dying boy covered in so much blood yesterday, as well as Louise's visible breakdown, had struck rather too close to home for comfort. She'd been reminded of another girl. She remembered that girl's tears. She'd seen that girl in blood, in death, in violence. That girl had seen the price of failure, had come to know it deeper and more painfully than even the Vallière had yesterday. And for that girl, there had been no one. Not even a hand of comfort.

As such, Tabitha had found herself trying to offer said comfort the other girl, and she had been just as surprised as dumbstruck at her own actions as said girl had been. Despite Kirche's frequent interactions with Louise, well, Tabitha really had not that much to do with the Vallière girl, if at all.

Then there had been that transforming boy yesterday, the badly injured one's supposed familiar. _That_ had been rather too close to home for comfort as well, in all sorts of ways. The corner of Tabitha's mouth quirked downward ever so slightly as another unbidden, long-buried memory bubbled to the surface.

_"Surprised? Well, everyone usually is."_

_"W-who are you?" her voice shook as she fought down the gurgle of blood and spit, holding her hand to plug the wound between her ribs. In her other hand she tried to point her staff steadily even as she fought to retain consciousness. "What . . . what are you?"_

_She received a small, pleasant smile. The voice even sounded apologetic._

_"There's really only one answer that matters. . ."_

Her right hand tightened around her staff involuntarily as she felt spikes of phantom pain from old scars, and she had to stop her free hand from reaching up and touching some of the said scars. She forced both hands to relax and shot a glance at Kirche to see if she'd noticed. For all that the Germanian tried to appear the bubbly, sex-loving airhead, Tabitha knew that she could quite adept at reading people. She knew that despite her significant emotional control, the redhead could sometimes pick up her mood, and Kirche would remember how unusually she had reacted yesterday. Fortunately, Kirche's attention had been on a distinctive pink-haired figure that had emerged from the corner ahead of them.

Tabitha saw Louise shuffle along quietly, ignoring the whispers and stares she encountered as she moved past hallway after hallway as she always did. The girl usually elicited that reaction and the only difference now Tabitha that could see was that there was little of the usual open jeering that accompanied people talking behind her back. Having summoned what many were becoming convinced was a demon had clearly made even calling for the girl's attention something to be avoided—as if the mere association would taint them with the unholiness. She supposed that in some ways Louise probably considered that an improvement.

The quiet Gallian noted that several students—and even a few servants—actually began moving back slightly, and some even looked away. Part of that was likely due to the deep bags around Louise's eyes that had lent her a haggard look despite indications of attempts to freshen up. That had only accentuated the irascibility on the girl's face, making it look like almost furious. Others would usually have considered that entertaining if it weren't for all the rumors circulating of infernal powers and pacts with Hel that suddenly made it a lot less funny. Superstitions were not taken lightly in the Brimiric Nations, especially not ones related to possible damnation, because they were right more often than not. Or so most people thought.

In her experience, damnation had a nasty habit of forgetting about those that well and truly deserved it, or at least it took its sweet time with them. She knew quite a few who deserved it more than most, and they were still quite vexingly alive.

Yet again, she felt an odd sense of kinship with the other girl as they both stewed in self-absorbed silence until she ruthlessly crushed it with a flare of irritation. She had allowed herself to see the other girl as some sort of reflection of herself again, and that was foolish and dangerous. Not to mention indulgent and unobjective, and she had already indulged in too much of that already.

_"I am here. I am me."_

_Her sight was fading even as the figure leaned over her._

_"And you'll become a memory."_

She let out a long breath, making sure that it was slow and quiet enough that no one who was watching would notice unless they paying improperly close attention. Her expression, as always, remained unchanged.

It helped that Kirche inadvertently lightened the mood when she chose that moment to skip merrily over to Louise, who turned at the sudden sound. The shorter girl jerked back violently and almost tumbled backward when she suddenly found herself face-to-face with Kirche's partly unbuttoned blouse and exposed cleavage.

"Good morning, Louise!" the tall redhead greeted her cheerfully.

Louise hastily straightened herself in as dignified a manner as possible, frowned, and grudgingly returned the greeting, "Good morning . . . Zerbst."

Then, upon seeing that she was also looking at her, Louise's annoyed and hostile frown turned more conflicted and uncertain. Nodding in a jerky, awkward manner at her, the pink-haired girl added, "G-good morning, Tabitha."

"Morning," she replied agreeably in a quiet almost-whisper.

For a moment and awkward silence fell as Louise's pinked-maned head hesitantly looked to and from either of them. Her usual reaction to their presence was a hostile greeting followed by an exchange of insults with Kirche, a state of affairs so ingrained to both of them now that it was second nature for all intents and purposes. This time, however, Tabitha could see that the unconscious response was warring with the memory of how both of them had acted toward her yesterday. The way they—well, Kirche—was smiling at her also confused Louise. The smile honestly looked pleasant instead of the sly, almost predatory one Kirche usually wore when she was about to unleash a barb.

Louise probably found it unnatural, bordering on perverse. Understandable. Unpredictability was always a cause for concern, after all—always.

"W-well, what do you want?" Louise finally demanded, unsure of exactly what they were expecting her to do

"Off to see your . . . well, I'm not sure if you'll be allowed to call them familiars, being nobility and all," Kirche ventured.

Usually, a line like that would have been said mockingly. This time it sounded like a straight question. In a pleasant tone even. Tabitha continued to observe them both quietly, knowing that the tone would only make the Tristanian even more suspicious. She approved. Suspicion and caution were healthy, and only a fool would ignore them . . . or a child. Tabitha's mouth twitched slightly again but was unnoticed by herself or the other two girls around her.

". . . yes," Louise replied slowly, eyes narrowed in warning. "It . . . it's my responsibility after all."

Naturally, Kirche saw that as an invitation.

"Yes, of course. How did you put it again?" The Germanian's voice changed to match Louise's in inflection, "'A-and as the one who s-summoned your master I, Louise Françoise le Blanc de La Vallière, third daughter of the House of La Vallière, take full responsibility for his well-being. I swear upon my noble duty that I will do everything within my ability to set this right, and I will explain myself fully to your master and his house when he regains consciousness.' Ohohohoh, simply adorable."

Louise's face twisted angrily, and her cheeks flashed scarlet—although there was also a hint of relief at at least one person finally acting as expected—which just served to entertain Kirche even more. From the sidelines, Tabitha waited out the verbal spar patiently. This too was agreeably familiar and predictable.

"I don't have time for this, Zerbst. Find your fun somewhere else today." There was a swish of a cloak catching air as the girl turned and stomped away in a huff.

"Oh, do relax, Louise. It would do you some good," Kirche sang as she and Tabitha trailed after her. "Honestly, look at you. You look so much older right now despite your child-like physique. It's rather grotesque."

"I said I'm not in the mood for this, Zerbst," Louise growled through clenched teeth. "So tell me what you want, or leave me alone."

"Curious," Tabitha suddenly spoke, deciding that that was the perfect opening for an interjection.

This surprised both Louise and Kirche enough that they actually stared at her as one, eyebrows raised questioningly. Tabitha nodded to herself in her mind. Just like that, she had established control.

"Ah, um . . . what?" the former inquired haltingly, still cautiously unsure on how to act around her.

"Who you summoned," Tabitha tried to say as soothingly as possible, making an effort to be less curt. Intimidation, unintentional or otherwise, had its place, and this wasn't one of them.

"Curious," she repeated in emphasis.

"You're surprisingly direct today, Tabitha," Kirche observed, eyebrow arching in interest. When Tabitha didn't respond, she sighed, "My, and so serious too."

"Isn't she always serious?" Louise quipped. Then she winced and looked at Tabitha again, as if realizing how that might sound.

She needn't have bothered. Tabitha's skin was too thick to take any sort of offense from mere words, and she really had no use for the petty, easily injured pride she saw in many of her fellow nobles. She'd seen more than enough of that from _that other girl_ back home to not get used to its ilk.

Kirche, however, giggled. "And so she is. But there's serious, and there's _serious_."

Louise shot her a look. "The difference being . . .?"

"All the world when it comes to Dear Tabby," Kirche answered, smiling warmly at the both of them.

"You're curious too," she pointed out, nudging the conversation in the preferred direction.

"And who wouldn't be? The outcast young antiprodigy of a so-called prestigious house summoning a mysterious, injured foreign soldier and his equally mysterious and exotic transforming familiar?" Kirche sighed in theatrical content. "Sounds like the setting of a play—no, better, an opera! What child of von Anhalt Zerbst would I be if I merely stood in the sidelines, leaving you the only heroine? I'm sorry, Vallière, but every good story needs a"—she thrust her chest forward—"_substantial_ and alluring female lead to hold everyone's interest. You understand, of course?"

"Antiprodigy isn't a word," Louise' pointed out drolly, "and you watch too much trashy commoner fare thinking that it's proper opera. But I guess that's to be expected with you Germanian 'nobles' being mongrel half-commoners."

"As opposed to you heavily inbred Tristainians? You're a small nation after all, and there's only so much good noble blood to go around. I suppose it's starting to go rather stale, just like everything else about your country."

At this, Louise dissolved into loud incoherence, and Tabitha was tempted to cast a silencing spell.

"And on the subject of breeding, there's the interesting pair of boys you summoned," Kirche continued, winking at still sputtering Louise. "Not that terribly handsome, but really not bad at all. And those battle scars, earned at great cost in the stark passion and violence of battle . . . ooh, quite dashing. And the other one, delightfully tall. A little skinny, perhaps, but also quite exotic—always a positive quality."

Tabitha didn't interrupt this time, choosing to observe the banal exchange quietly. They were still talking about Louise's summons after all, and they were still heading for the infirmary. Exactly the direction Tabitha wanted.

"Of course," Louise sighed after she had collected herself, voice dripping with exasperation and disgust. "It always comes back to that with you, doesn't it?"

"Oh, Louise, it always comes back to that with everybody. Don't worry, you'll understand when you're older." Kirche turned her sly smile on Tabitha. "It's even true with Tabby over here._Especially_ with Tabby over here. My, such books . . ."

Tabitha chose not to dignify that with a response as Kirche faced Louise again.

"I'm just more honest than most."

Kirche slowly and sensuous ran the tip of her index finger almost across Louise's chest, causing the pink-haired youth to give an outraged squeak and jump back. Tabitha knew that Louise's prudishness was one of the girl's many sore spots, and Kirche just loved to poke at them.

"And so are you, Little Lou-Lou," she continued in playful accusation. "Very, very honest."

"I-I'm honest, all right!" Louise roared, cheeks red. "Honestly disgusted and appalled at the depths of your perversion."

"Oh, don't be so shy, Louise," Kirche mock admonished. "Everyone knows that the summoning ritual gives one exactly the familiar one needs, and you apparently need not one but _two_strapping young lads. Who knew you had it in you? I'm so proud! It seems some parts of you are growing up, at least."

"We're here," Tabitha interjected as Kirche chortled merrily when Louise erupted in outrage again, a subtle reminder and exertion of the control she had established.

Still, despite herself, Tabitha moved past both of them to the infirmary's door. It was not quite brusque, and she did mutter a whispered "excuse me." It was still pointed enough to give Louise and Kirche pause.

"Curious," Tabitha repeated in explanation, seeing how they were looking at her.

". . . _Curious_," Louise observed pointedly after a pause.

"Curious." Kirche nodded in agreement.

"Repetition. Not clever," Tabitha murmured off-handedly as she opened the door and entered.

"W-was that a joke?" Louise blinked as she followed her in. "Did she just make a joke?"

"It happens," Kirche said, smiling knowingly.

And indeed it had been a joke. It was also exactly the unexpected thing needed to redirect some of their unspoken questions about her apparent eagerness to meet the mysterious pair Louise had summoned. Control came in many forms after all.

There was the slightest hesitation as Tabitha turned the doorknob, another memory worming its way to the surface of her thoughts.

_"Still, I do like you. I almost regret doing this."_

_The voice sounded distant._

_Even with the blackness starting to overwhelm her vision, Tabitha could see eyes peering intently into hers. They were at once dull and dead yet gimlet and focused._

_"Almost."_

She opened the infirmary door and stepped in, hoping that she was keeping her movements measured enough that the others wouldn't see her sudden trepidation.

The strange transforming "familiar" was looking right at her, unnatural white eyes boring into her own.

* * *

Count Mott smiled cordially as he entered the headmaster's office. He took note of the presence of another man in the room, and his smile widened.

"Good morning, Headmaster Osmond, Professor," he greeted pleasantly. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Oh, not at all," Osmond replied affably, puffing on his pipe. "We just concluded our conversation when you knocked, in fact. Mr. Colbert, if there's anything else . . .?"

"Oh no, sir. If you'll excuse me—" began the teacher.

"And I do," the headmaster added playfully.

"I'll be taking my leave," Colbert finished. Then, awkwardly realizing that he'd been dismissed before he'd finished talking, he added, "Ah, er, right. Thank you."

Colbert made a move toward the door, then suddenly paused as if he'd forgotten something. "Ah! Excuse me as well, Count Mott. And good morning."

The count nodded indulgently and watched impassively as the man left visibly flustered. As always, he enjoyed the show. Whatever else you could say about either of them, Osmond and Colbert were good actors. If the Palace hadn't seen fit to share certain information with him, he would've dismissed the balding man as an awkward academic of little relevance. It helped that the man looked the part.

Looks, of course, were deceiving, and so were presumptions.

Just as publicly the two other men in the room were little more than academy faculty, he was publicly little more than a lower-ranked noble serving as this region's glorified royal messenger boy. Publicly.

Ignore the fact that Sir Osmond had a distinguished career in royal service. Just think of him as a senile old fool given away a cushy job thanks primarily to fond memories of his old service held by people in high places. A typical royal bone for a typical royal dog. Pay no mind to Jean Colbert, a man with a distinguished career performing a similar service as the infamous square-class fire mage, the Flame Snake. Just think of him as yet another dotty, absent-minded academic. Just like people conveniently paid little attention to the massive vault of important national treasures within the academy, or that said academy was also situated a mere hour's walk away from the estate of the local palace messenger.

Mott had always appreciated the elegant simplicity of how the Tristainian Court had managed to gloss the importance of such nationally significant things simply by leaving them for all to see and not really paying much apparent attention to it. After all, something kept jealously guarded under lock and key and fortress only served to whet curiosity and draw attention. But something right where everyone could see, treated as a matter of routine? Dismissed as mundane and uninteresting within days, if even that.

True, there were always rumors of fabulous treasures within the academy vault, and fanciful stories of intrigue within its walls. But in paying no real mind to them, they had remained just that: rumors and fancy. Talked about, speculated on, and promptly forgotten in lieu of other more lurid pieces of gossip. Some of which he provided in his penchant for collecting attractive commoners.

Mott felt privileged just to be a part in the openly secret farce.

"Oh, and please have a seat," the headmaster said, as if just remembering his manners himself.

"Thank you," Mott replied graciously, playing his part.

"Now, what can I do for you, ah . . . Sorry, what was your name again?" Osmond rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, face apologetic.

"It's Count Mott, Sir Osmond. The palace messenger," he replied understandingly, like an older youth to a senile grandparent. He knew his role in this game.

"Right, right, now I remember. Sorry, I rarely see you enough, and I'm afraid this old rusting mind leaks more often than I'd like."

"Ah, I'm afraid that despite my estate's proximity to your academy, my duties just seem to keep me away far too much. A shame. It's always heartening to see Tristain's legacy being molded in such capable hands."

_And even more heartening to see young Tristanian beauties coming so gracefully into womanhood,_ Mott thought as he gazed at the man, knowing that the old man in front of him shared a similar appreciation for comeliness. _A shame that you really can't mold them with your hands that way, eh, Osmond?_

He sighed wistfully, thinking of his own beauteous young servants. Ah, nothing made a man feel like a man than a good woman or two. Or ten. Perhaps he should see if Osmond was willing to part with a pretty maid or two, maybe a fetching young cook. A woman who could satisfy more than one appetite was always welcome.

His eyes moved over to the empty desk of Osmond's secretary. He knew she was quite a beauty herself. _Ah, a man after my own heart as always, Headmaster._

"Bah, everyone knows I just sit here and smoke all day," Osmond said, waving away his flattery. "It's the professors who do the molding and the putting up with Tristain's spoiled, bratty legacy. I just get a big office and all the credit. Not too shabby a job, all things considered."

"As always, Sir Osmond, you are too humble and much too hard on yourself," Mott replied, managing to sound somewhat sincere instead of deadpan.

"Eh, enough of that," Osmond snorted, "I'm so old, I might die any moment. Or I might forget who you are again. Best give me the latest from the Palace so you can be on your way before that happens."

"Of course." Mott drew the rolled parchment and presented it the old man seal-forward.

Osmond waved his staff lazily and levitated the scroll to his table, where his tiny familiar immediately nibbled off the wax seal. Mott waited passively as the headmaster read the contents of the note, his eyes drifting over to the mirror off to one side of the headmaster's desk.

The old man hadn't been fast enough earlier. Maybe someone not paying close attention would've missed it, but he'd been able to catch a glimpse of Osmond waving his staff at the mirror. It was clear to Mott that the man had been hastily undoing a scrying spell. Coupled with the fact that Colbert had been in the room earlier . . .

_So, Old Osmond, you and the Flame Snake are in a scheming mood today, hm?_

Sir Osmond had always been something of a wildcard, an independent-minded man who never really fully appreciated the competence of those in the Royal Court. In fact, the major reason he wasn't actually one of the courtiers in the Palace was his pig-headed tendency to speak loudly against a course of action he thought unwise—damn whatever higher-ranking individual that course of action happened to be a pet project of. He'd made a lot of enemies, but he was also a Hero of the Kingdom and had more than enough friends and influence to make it difficult for him to be simply removed without raising a godawful stink. His assignment to the Tristain Academy of Magic had been a compromise that allowed his enemies to move him somewhere where they could keep an eye on him while appearing prestigious enough to appease his allies.

Mott had the honor of being that eye.

Normally, he would have assumed that Osmond had simply been keeping his own eye on him when he'd arrived, to make sure he wasn't taking the opportunity to snoop around the academy. Osmond was no fool, as much as he liked to think his façade made people underestimated him as one, and he'd know exactly where both he and Mott stood with each other. However, today he clearly hadn't expected his arrival, and he wondered what could warrant such close observation that the headmaster had managed to overlook his presence until it was too late.

He kept his ears open around the academy for gossip among the servants and students, hoping they'd let slip some relevant information. He'd just caught bits like "the Zero," something about yesterday's summoning ritual, and something about injured soldiers and demons. All in all, the snippets of information had meant little to Mott other than _the Zero_.

He'd been watching the academy long enough to know who that referred to. But he wasn't sure what the incompetent third daughter of the La Vallière had anything to do with injured soldiers and demons unless she'd somehow summoned a demon, or exploded a group of soldiers. However, if any situation had been bad enough to involve injured soldiers, then he would've heard more about it. There also would've been signs of fierce battle everywhere, and the academy guards should've been on alert. He'd seen none of those.

The palace messenger continued to gaze placidly at the still-reading Osmond. _What exactly are you up to, old man?_

He'd have to see what his spies in the academy knew. But until they could safely go out to town on "errands" and make contact with his people, he'd have no access to their information, and that was provided that it was even useful information in the first place. Making contact with them within the academy was also too risky given Osmond's scrying.

He struggled not to let his frustration show as Osmond finally finished reading, "Well, if this is straight from the Palace, then I have no reason to doubt it, hm?"

With a small twitch of his staff, Osmond levitated a pen to sign the missive and confirm his receiving of it. Then he levitated it toward Mott, who plucked in from the air.

"My gratitude, Sir Osmond," the count stated in a grateful tone.

"Tell those worried old wives in the Court not to worry. The wards around the vault are as strong as ever and carefully maintained. The guards are also well-drilled and alert. The only way Fouquet's getting in is if he hires an army."

"Or has inside help," Mott pointed out reasonably, knowing exactly what the reaction would be.

"As I said, my people are all competent and reliable, to make up for my own shortcomings," Osmond responded jocularly. "I trust them to do their jobs."

The less affable implication was clear.

"Oh, there was never any doubt, Headmaster," the count assured smoothly. "I was merely pointing out a possibility, no offense was meant."

"None was taken, and we've already taken that possibility into consideration," the old man's voice still had the same pleasant, somewhat bored tone. Nevertheless, Mott did not miss the implicit warning either.

"Then there is no need to worry." Mott gave an emphatic nod. "Not that there ever was. The Palace trusts you completely."

That barb too was clear. Osmond just nodded, as if reluctantly acknowledging a compliment, and puffed his pipe in silence.

The count beamed genially at the dismissal. "Well then, I've wasted enough of your important time today, Headmaster. I best take my leave."

"Until next time then." The headmaster made no move to get up. "I hope I can remember you then, but no promises. Hope to be alive too, but no promises on that either."

Mott did not rise to the bait. "A pleasure, as always." _More like you wish you can forget all about me. _

He tried not to show his enjoyment too much even after he had turned away and was opening the door. That last spoken line had been completely honest. Their little game was always so fun, especially given how Osmond most certainly did not enjoy his company. His good mood only improved when a surprised squeak sounded as he exited the office.

It was Osmond's beautiful bespectacled secretary, and the flustered expression on her face from almost running into the door made her blush prettily.

Mott leered. "Ah, Ms. Longueville! I wondered why you weren't in the headmaster's office. Your radiant presence was sorely missed."

At this, he eyed her rather impressive chest. _Yes, sorely missed indeed._

Of course, this caused the woman to blush even more and draw her arm and shawl over chest._ Ah, so shy. Lovely._

"A-ah, oh, C-Count Mott. G-good morning."

"So it is. Hm, you look like you've yet to break fast. Would you care to catch a bite to eat with me then, Ms. Longueville?"

"A-ah, w-well . . ." the woman was blushing furiously now. Commoner women were always so hesitant around nobles. That's why he loved them. Working his ministrations, putting them at ease, made them that much more enthusiastic.

"Perhaps some other time," the secretary continued, managing to calm herself at last. "I'm afraid the day's just starting for me, Lord Mott."

"Of course," he said understandingly. "Some other time then. I'll be looking forward to it."

With that, he gave her a courteous nod and turned to leave. He didn't see her face twist in contempt and disgust.

* * *

Louise glared angrily at Tabitha as she reached for the infirmary door. Or at least, she wanted to glare angrily Tabitha. The girl had done nothing but confuse her since yesterday, and she was well and truly sick of it. Hadn't she enough to worry about? She had an accidentally summoned near-dead noble and his possibly demonic familiar that she was duty-bound to help. She still wasn't sure whether the botched summoning counted as a failure and if she would thusly get expelled. She hadn't had any real sleep. She _did not need_ to try to figure out whatever arcane thoughts were running through the blue-haired girl's head on top of all that, nor did she want to put up with the teasing of the obnoxious, freakishly breasted redhead said girl counted as a friend.

She turned her glare on Kirche, but the other girl was also busy staring at Tabitha, interest and confusion on her face. Miffed that she didn't even have the satisfaction of Kirche receiving her ire properly, she went back to her dark ruminations on Tabitha.

Just who did the girl think she was? Just because she had given her some comfort yesterday—and it had been a comfort, as much as she hated to acknowledge it—she suddenly thought she could just come tag along and meet her guests at her leisure? As if that suddenly made them close enough for that despite all the time the other girl just stood impassively while everyone else tormented her. The nerve of her!

And what Louise hated—absolutely _hated_—about the situation was that despite all her anger, despite all of the perfectly valid reasons for her anger, a part of her wasn't allowing her to unleash it on Tabitha. Partly because she was still stupidly grateful for yesterday, and partly because Tabitha still intimidated her.

She didn't really know why. The girl didn't look all that impressive. Her body type was little different from her own in fact. But . . . _but._

There was always that _but_. There was just something off about the quiet Gallian that disconcerted most people, and Louise's anger just couldn't quite overcome that foreboding sense of caution.

So she stewed even as Tabitha opened the door to the infirmary as if she was entitled to do so. Letting out a sigh, she and Kirche followed. She glared at the Germanian again, trying to send some of the unspent anger at her. At least Kirche had made clear what she was playing at with her earlier teasing. This was yet another opportunity for the redhead to tease and belittle Louise, nothing else. She could hate her safely, and hating Kirche was always a comfort.

Inside Tabitha almost crashed into the demonic-looking familiar, and Louise tensed. Her anger and frustration abruptly deflated, curling into an icy ball at the pit of her stomach.

_Dear Founder, no . . . _

She looked at the strange familiar, who was now glaring at Tabitha himself, apparently displeased at the interruption. Her terror deepened. She still didn't know exactly what they boy-thing was, but she knew beyond a doubt that he couldn't be human—just look at him! And any Halkeginian with a half-functioning mind knew that it was always the humanlike monsters who were among the most dangerous. And apparently Tabitha's own mind had stopped working for some reason, because she was staring right back at the familiar!

Her hands tensed as blue eyes met white . . .

. . . and the white eyes jerked away. Then they twitched to the side. Then they were glaring at her, causing her to draw back a bit. Then they snapped away to glare at Kirche for a moment before looking away again. The boy then stepped back, rapidly sweeping his discolored eyes from the unconscious figure on the bed and on to the window before snapping back to the three of them, jiggling suspiciously all the while. It had all happened within the span of about three seconds, possibly less.

Louise saw the familiar settling into the stance he'd settled into just after he revealed himself. Legs spread a bit and slightly bent, ready to pounce, and arms out to either side, ready to be raised. The distrusting eyes narrowed calculatingly even as they flickered between them and around the room.

She tried to calm herself down and keep her face as neutral as possible. She needed to diffuse this situation now before the leery familiar became a lot more hostile. He'd probably been surprised by the sudden and unannounced arrival of the two other girls, and Louise cursed herself for allowing them to come along. She should've expected a reaction like this, and she should've known nothing good could ever come from Kirche's company—or Tabitha's for that matter. For some reason the other girl was looking pointedly at the familiar, arm tensed on her staff. Just what was she thinking? Was she trying to pick a fight with the familiar for some insane reason?

"I-I apologize if we've startled you," Louise straightened herself, trying to keep her voice steady as she spoke in Albionese. "Little exciting happens in this school, and my classmates are just very curious about you and your master. I'm sure _no rudeness was meant_."

She looked pointedly at Tabitha as she emphasized the last phrase. She was relieved to see that the other girl moved back a little and eased her grip on her staff, even if she was still looking warily at the boy. Just what was Tabitha's problem? She was just acting stranger and stranger. Why was she even acting this provocatively? Unless . . . did she know what the boy was? Was that why she was looking so apprehensively at him?

Louise looked back at the boy, trying not to let her own uncertainty show on her face. If Tabitha did recognize what he was and was this worried about him, should she be too? She chewed on her lower lip, knowing that she couldn't ask the other girl. Not in front of the still guarded familiar.

"Excuse me," Tabitha finally said, also in Albionese. Louise wasn't sure since her tone rarely varied, but she thought the blue-haired girl's apology had been a bit grudging.

"Yes, do excuse Tabitha," Kirche interjected in support of her friend. "She's rarely this forward, but when interest takes her she can be quite overeager. I confess that I let my curiosity lead me to error as well as I forgot to properly introduce myself."

Kirche smiled pleasantly and stepped forward to introduce herself. "I am Kirche Augusta Frederica von Anhalt Zerbst, and I apologize for our breach of etiquette."

That only seemed to make the familiar even more nervous and calculating. His eyes shot to the door, the window, and then briefly toward his unconscious master before they settled to glaring at them again. Then they settled again on Tabitha, whose gaze was still steadily on him. She seemed to make him uneasy the most.

Louise tried mightily to stop herself from going to the Gallian and giving her a good shake. An apology wasn't going to work _if she was going to keep on glaring at the familiar like that_! She wracked her mind, trying to find a way to get the other girl to back off so the familiar wouldn't turn even angrier than he was clearly becoming.

Beside her, Kirche chuckled and spoke loudly, "Oh . . . now I see what's going on. Oh my, this is a novelty."

Unsure what the redhead was talking about, Louise shot her a questioning look.

Kirche expression was shrewd. "See, Lou-Lou, I told you it comes back to 'that' even with Tabitha."

_That?_ Louise wondered. Just what did Kirche—then she suddenly remembered what the Germanian had said earlier. Her scowl became a look of disbelief.

It was Tabitha's turn to look at Kirche, eyebrow raised. Kirche just gave her a grin.

"My, I've never seen you so interested in a boy before, Tabby. Looks like our dear Louise isn't the only one growing up today. Going for the tall, silent type, hm? Upon consideration, that does make sense."

This caused a pair of white eyes to nearly pop out of their sockets, and they whipped in Tabitha's direction in what looked to Louise like a mix of abject horror and incredulity. Louise, for her part, felt like she was making the same face.

_That . . . no, it couldn't . . . could Kiche be . . . is Tabitha . . . no . . . No. No! This is making less and less sense! Did the world turn into farce overnight? Am I actually just having a ridiculous dream?_

Seeing the boy's reaction, Kirche's grin turned shark-like. "Oh, and so shy as well. Better be careful with this one, Tabitha. Shy boys tend to be a bit fragile and skittish, but they sometimes have . . . _sensitive_ charms."

The boy's face was now twisted into a mix of terror and umbrage—the latter probably at Kirche's "fragile" description—and he was edging visibly toward the window.

"W-wait, whuh?" Louise stammered, staring at Tabitha. "Y-you mean . . . curious?"—Louise's eyes boggled—"You were _curious_."

At this point Kirche was pealing in laughter. Louise stood looking from one to the other uncomprehendingly, struggling with her thoughts. She just wasn't sure what to think about all this. On one hand, it was just plain ridiculous and had come from out of nowhere. On the other hand, with everything else that had happened, she just wasn't sure what to think.

She turned toward Tabitha again, question plain on her face.

"No," Tabitha answered in no uncertain terms.

She turned to the boy and repeated herself, perhaps a little more emphatically this time. "No."

"Now, Tabby, that's just hurtful," Kirche scolded her, beaming in amusement. "And after you'd gotten the poor boy's hopes up."

Louise let out a loud disgusted breath as she planted her forehead into an open palm. Of course. It was just Kirche turning the conversation toward flirting and her idea of "romance," like her deviant mind always did. She didn't know whether to be angry at the redhead for bringing it up or at herself for actually taking the joke seriously due to her anger and confusion. She should really have known better.

"That's enough, Zerbst!" Louise stepped in, pointing at the redhead. "Stop teasing the guest!"

"Guest? If I remember correctly, Little Lou-Lou, you never invited these two. You kidnapped them."

"It was a summoning not a kidnapping!" Louise snapped. Yes, just like Zerbst. When she wasn't talking about shamelessly immodest things, she was teasing her.

Then, seeing the look the familiar was now giving her, Louise turned to him with her hands up placatingly.

"An _accidental_ summoning. Never listen to this perverted idiot—no one else ever does! Not if they're smart."

"And what does that make you, Dear Little Lou-Lou?" Kirche said sweetly. "You always listen to me enough to be so enormously bothered by everything I say, and you take it so personally as well."

The pink-haired girl felt yet another stab of fury, and she opened her mouth to retort. Kirche, however, just continued to talk right past whatever she'd been about to say.

"You need to lighten up and take a joke, Vallière. I mean, I'm sure even your guest understands that I'm only having a bit of fun. I'm always just have a bit of fun. You should try it, it's quite rewarding."

Louise just scowled, looked Kirche in the eye, and opened her mouth . . . then she closed it, ground her teeth a bit, before finally setting her jaw. No, she would not let Kirche provoke her yet again into making a fool of herself, especially not while the demonic-looking familiar was in the room. Who knew what might happen if she and Kirche really got into it before him. For all she knew, the hostility would be taken exactly the wrong way, provoking him into attacking all of them. She would allow neither Tabitha's nor Kirche's stupidity to let that happen.

She tried to keep the scowl on her face as she spoke to the familiar again, not wanting him to get the wrong message. "Ah, sorry about that unseemly scene. We . . ."

Louise found herself trailing off when she saw the familiar's expression. The hostile look was mostly gone—save for some lingering distrust—and had been replaced by a quizzical look. He kept looking back between her and Kirche, clearly seeing the adversarial tension between the two of them and unsure of what to think of that.

She sighed. That couldn't have improved how she appeared to the familiar. First she had accidentally summoned his master, and now she was getting into fights with another noble in the same room where his master was recovering. He'd probably have quite a few words to say about her to said master when he finally woke up, and she began dreading her eventual personal apology to him even more.

Damn Zerbst. She'd probably wanted exactly that to happen. Louise wanted to give the girl a withering look, but refrained. She's already spent far too much of her dignity in front of her unwilling guest today. At least, judging from his look, the spectacle had made him more confused instead of angry —

The realization struck her, and her eyes widened. As unseemly as Kirche's joking and her own reaction had been, it had actually calmed the overly wary familiar down. At the very least he now wasn't looking like he was trying to think of a way to gut them as he escaped with his unconscious master, although he still occasionally watched Tabitha guardedly. Fortunately, the other girl appeared less openly suspicious of the familiar herself, though she was also shooting him cautious glances every now and then. For that matter, the same joking had also been Tabitha had backed of from staring down the familiar.

Louise sighed. Well, that was a start at least. He face was frowning in thought as she peered at Kirche, wondering if she'd intended to do this. The Germanian just replied with a gratingly smug expression.

She looked away and snorted. Fine, Zerbst had actually done something useful for once. She still didn't trust her.

Her eyes fell on a tray full of untouched food, and she turned to the familiar again. As if to answer her question, she heard the familiar's stomach gurgle. It was loud enough that Louise actually saw Tabitha blink.

Exactly what Louise needed right now to get a more favorable impression.

Kirche giggled. "Well, that's as good a reminder as any. We'd better be off to the dining hall for breakfast before classes start, Vallière."

"I know, Zerbst. I was going to invite my honored guest to breakfast," she retorted. Then, under her breath, "But you and Tabitha had to stick your noses in and derail everything."

"What was that, Lou-Lou? Didn't quite catch it."

"Nothing," Louise said through clenched teeth. More calmly, she continued, "Um, if you don't mind, would you care to join me—well, us—for breakfast?"

She was answered with another growl from the familiar's stomach, and she saw Kirche laugh quietly from behind a raised hand. A look of annoyance passed at the familiar's face at this, which actually put Louise a bit more at ease around him. The reaction had made him seem a bit more human.

She saw an expression of consideration warring with the usual suspicion on his face for a moment. He turned to look at the bed of his unconscious master, his body language uncertain.

"You have my assurance that your master will remain safe enough here in the infirmary," Louise said confidently. When the familiar still looked uncertain, she added, "I've been told that his injuries will keep him unconscious for quite some time as he recovers. I've sent for special healing reagents at my expense, and those should help him recover faster. They should arrive later today."

At this, the familiar actually turned to her and nodded in gratitude. However, he still made no move toward her. Louise's mouth pursed; she was starting to get annoyed at the white-eyed boy's continued stubbornness.

"Been here since yesterday," Tabitha suddenly pointed out.

The familiar looked at the blue-haired girl doubtfully and edged a bit away from her, but Louise could see that he was thinking it over.

"Freedom of movement," Tabitha offered. "See more escape routes."

"Tabitha!" Louise shrieked. She didn't have to be so bluntly honest about it.

"Good faith," the Gallian continued.

The familiar's expression was cloudy as he percolated, and a long moment passed. He turned to give another concerned look at his master, and Louise felt a pang of jealousy at the loyalty. Had her summoning gone right, maybe she'd have had an equally faithful familiar of her own right now. She banished the thought with a quick head shake; this wasn't the time for her to brood.

Finally, the familiar gave a slow nod.

"Ah!" Louise said happily, "Excellent. Um, please, follow me."

Louise led the way out of the infirmary, walking somewhat stiffly. She looked behind her and saw that the familiar was waiting for Kirche and Tabitha to go out first. For a moment, Louise was afraid that he'd suddenly decide to shut the door behind them. However, after one last look at the bed, he trudged forward and followed them. Louise sighed in relief and began moving forward.

As the door closed behind them, no one saw the figure on the bed begin to stir.

* * *

And that's all for this chapter. I appreciate thoughts and reviews, so drop one if you feel like it.


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